Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries (45 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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The tourist climbed from the trail below. She had her head down, and her tan hood waffled around her face, hiding it.
“Here comes your charge,” Dusty said. “As the resident tourist herder, maybe you’d better go empty the potsherds from her pockets and send her back to the established trails.”
Maggie stood up and called, “Pardon me, ma’am, but this area is closed to the public. You’ll have to stay on the prescribed trails.”
“Indeed?” she called in that precise New England
accent. “I think your administrator would approve of my being here. I believe he would consider it, well, let’s say professional courtesy.”
Dusty put a hand out to restrain Maggie. “It’s all right. It’s Ruth Ann Sullivan.”
“Your
mother?
” The note of incredulity and the look on Maggie’s face were precious.
“In the flesh. Now, what was it we were just talking about? That thing with men and women?”
“Forget I said it,” she muttered. “Want me to go warn Rupert that she’s here?”
“He’s got papers to shuffle and a park to run. I’ll make sure she doesn’t flip cigarette butts into the carbon samples and keep her from collapsing the ruin walls.”
She gave Ruth Ann a skeptical look, then turned to hug Dusty, as though she thought he might need it. She whispered, “Thanks for listening.”
“Yeah, Magpie, anytime. See you.” He let her go and watched her give Ruth Ann a wide berth as she headed down the hill.
Ruth Ann Sullivan wore a thick coat, the sort sold by upscale sporting goods stores. Her hiking boots looked brand-new, slightly dusted from the walk up to the site. A knit cap was pulled over her shining silver hair. She looked somehow disheveled, her blue jeans wrinkled.
“You must have risen at four A.M. to make it out here this early.”
“I slept in the Explorer last night.” A faint smile crossed her lips as she looked back at Maggie, who picked her way down the ridge. “Another one of your women, I take it? You surprise me. You’re more of a lothario than I would have thought. What happened with you and the good doctor, the one with the black eyes and the killer figure? Did she finally come to her senses?”
In a curt voice, Dusty asked, “What are you doing out here?”
The wind teased strands of her silver hair as she turned toward the dig. “That’s where they found Dale?”
“It is.”
“What have you discovered?”
“Nothing yet.”
She let out a breath as though relieved, or maybe disappointed, Dusty couldn’t tell for sure.
“Slept in the Explorer, huh?” he said and crossed his arms, anticipating an argument. “You didn’t, perchance, drop a photocopy of one of Dale’s journals by my trailer before you came out here, did you?”
Ruth Ann turned slowly. Her eyes resembled cut diamonds, hard and glittering. “You have a photocopy of one of Dale’s journals? I’d very much like to see it.”
“Why?”
“Did you read it, William?”
“I will as soon as Agent Nichols gives it back.”
She didn’t say anything, as though waiting for him to continue, but her gaze affected him like a knife in his belly, carving him apart. “Nichols must have read it by now. And he hasn’t found the killer, or the dig would be closed. Oh, come on. You must have sneaked a glance at the pages? What did it say?”
Dusty matched her stare. “He said you were a ruthless bitch who would stop at nothing to get your way.”
Ruth Ann’s left brow arched. “Amazing, your mouth still quirks when you lie. Just like it did when you were five years old.”
She walked away, toward the site.
 
 
BROWSER SLIPPED AND skidded down into Straight Path Wash, his fevered lungs burning for breath. They were still behind him. He’d seen them less than fifty heartbeats ago. He unpinned the white cloak he’d taken from the body of the scout killed by his uncle and let it drop into the dark mud. Then he bent down and stripped the white moccasins from his feet. He quickly replaced them with his own worn brown buffalo-hide pair and slogged downstream through the runoff.
The cold air felt wonderful. It dried the hot sweat on his skin and cooled his lungs.
He heard shouts, but from the north. Browser hesitated only a moment, listened, then ran again. Blessed Gods, was it working?
He trotted forward on unsteady legs and hunkered down beside the roadway. He could hear labored breathing. He lifted himself and peered over the bank. They wore white cloaks, but not the fine cloaks of the White Moccasins; these had been dyed with white clay and ash, but the effect was the same in the darkness.
“Here!” he called.
“War Chief?” Yucca Whip led his party toward Straight Path Wash.
“Yes. Take your cloaks off and toss them into the wash. Then follow me.”
As they tossed their capes into the mud, the gasping Yucca Whip managed to say, “You should have seen
it! Masterful! They were looking everywhere except at their feet. I’d have never believed it!”
More shouts.
“Quickly, this way.” Browser led them westward, then dropped onto his belly on the cold ground. They lay down behind him. “Look!”
There, running northward, they could see the shining cloaks of the White Moccasins. Angry shouts broke out from Blue Corn’s warriors when they, too, picked out the bobbing white cloaks.
“Holy Thlatsinas,” Yucca Whip whispered. “It’s going to work.”
“Where’s Catkin?” Browser asked, scanning the group.
“I don’t know, War Chief. Her party drew the warriors off to the east, but as soon as they figured out it was a diversion, they returned. If the deputy or any of the others was wounded, none of the Straight Path warriors spoke of it.”
Browser returned his attention to the closing warriors, but a knot of worry drew tight in his chest.
 
 
RUTH ANN SULLIVAN stopped at the edge of the yellow tape and watched Sylvia screening the dirt that Michall shoveled up to her. The FBI team had started to sweat. It beaded their faces and ran down their necks. Sylvia kept giving Ruth Ann questioning looks, obviously wondering who she might be, but Michall barely seemed to notice her. Dusty walked over to stand beside his mother.
“So, this is where they left him?” Ruth Ann said.
Standing there in the wind, Dusty tried to decide what he felt for this woman, but he didn’t seem to feel anything. It was as though a big blank hole opened up
inside him when he looked at her. “What do you mean, they? You think it was more than one person?”
She shrugged. “Dale was a big man.”
“Not that big. He’d lost a lot of weight. He was seventy-three. Bone and muscle mass decreases with age. I’d say he might have weighed one-thirty or one-forty, somewhere in there.” He was looking at her, remembering the way she’d walked up the hill—as though she owned the world.
As if reading his mind, she said, “You don’t like me, do you? Not that it matters, God knows.”
“I don’t know you well enough to dislike you. Give me another day.”
She laughed, the sound of it dry and brittle. “No wonder you got along with Dale. I must admit, I thought about killing him once upon a time, and I sure as hell would have if he’d been behind those faxes.”
Dusty studied her face, and for a moment he could see her as she had been when he was four or five. Ravishingly beautiful, smiling, her long blond hair whipping around her face in the wind. Where had that been? What dig? One of the excavations out at Zuni? A sensation of happiness spread through him.
He marveled at that. All these years he’d believed she’d never really done archaeology—yet he had memories of her on excavations. Memories he’d apparently locked inside himself and forgotten. Or perhaps Dale’s words that she’d never “sunk a trowel” had tricked his memories into retreating?
He said, “Why are you still here?”
“Your friends at the FBI asked me not to leave.” Her squint wasn’t just the wind. “And I’m interested. I thought I’d see where this investigation of yours goes. I’ve just about come to the conclusion that Carter’s at the bottom of this. He always was a vindictive son of a bitch.”
“Why would he kill Dale?”
“Envy, William. It’s a hideous emotion. Dale was
everything Carter wanted to be: famous, respected, powerful, charming, and virile. He got along with people. All Dale had to do was turn on that charm and even his enemies liked him. He was a big man in every mannerism and aspect. Carter Hawsworth, for all of his show, is small-minded.” She shook her head. “It must have come as quite a blow to Carter when he returned here to find just how important Dale had become.”
Dusty nodded. “The governor even gave him an award last year, for his contributions to understanding New Mexico’s past.”
“In Carter’s mind, that’s reason enough for murder.”
Dusty watched Sylvia pick something out of the screen. She examined it, then tossed it aside. Probably a rock. “You’re pushing this ‘Carter the Murderer’ thing pretty hard, aren’t you?”
She slipped her gloved hands into her pockets. “The human muscle tissue that you said they found in Dale’s mouth—”
“Had been taken from a cadaver; it had preservative in it.”
She rubbed the back of her neck, and whispered, “A cadaver,” but it sounded like a question. “So, the murderer must have had access to a medical school, anatomy lab, or mortuary.”
“Or graveyard. If you know about southwestern witchcraft, you know how important graveyards can be.”
“And Dale was killed right here?” She was staring woodenly at the excavation. “But why kill him …” She turned slightly as she examined the surrounding canyon. He saw her finger moving, marking off the landmarks, and then she stiffened at some thought in her head.
“What are you thinking about?” Dusty asked.
“Nothing, I just … are you
certain
he was killed here?”
“Actually, we just found out yesterday that he was
killed in Casa Rinconada.” Dusty was watching her. “The bloodstains are still there, on the kiva floor.”
She swiveled around to look back at the great kiva.
Something about her expression, the odd tension in her face, the hardness at the corners of her lips …
Dusty said, “But then, you knew that, didn’t you? That’s the first place you went when you arrived. You stopped there and looked in for a long time. What were you seeing? The way Dale looked in his last moments?”
She swallowed hard. If anyone ever looked guilty, Ruth Ann Sullivan did. He saw the fear in her eyes as she turned away and started down the hill.
“Wait!” Dusty started after her. “How did you know he’d been killed there? Did someone tell you? Or did you—?”
She spun around, panic and tears mixing on her face.
“I
didn’t
kill him, you simpering little bastard!” She broke into a hobbling run.
“Wait. Come back!”
When she hit the graveled path, Ruth Ann Sullivan broke into a flat-out run, headed back to her parked vehicle.
Dusty watched her speed away down the dirt road. Only when he happened to glance back at the dig did he notice that Michall, Sylvia, and the FBI guys were watching, wide-eyed and silent.
 
 
THE WHITE MOCCASINS boiled up from Straight Path Wash. Rain Crow blocked the first blow with his war club; then the battle disintegrated into a mad chaos of slashing, hacking warriors.
“Kill them! Kill them all!” The cries of the White
Moccasins carried over the grunting pants of men fighting for their lives.
Screams rang out as warriors were battered senseless, or some archer drove a shaft into a sweating body.
“Orphan scum!” “Dirty killer!” “Bastard born of a slave!” Curses were hurled as the melee swirled. “Kill our Blessed Elder, will you? He’ll eat your liver!”
“Die, you puss-sucking First worm!”
Rain Crow twisted his ruined face into a grimace and blocked yet another of the raining blows that were being showered upon him. Sun cycles of practice stood him in good stead. He ducked, and his assailant’s momentum carried him past. Rain Crow thrust his war club into the man’s crotch with enough force to send him howling and reeling. A follow-up stroke crushed the man’s ribs. Pivoting on his foot, he split the fellow’s skull with a meaty smack.
Somewhere to his right, a man let out a bloodcurdling, eerie scream as he died.
Around him, warriors swirled in a blur. The white cloaks of the enemy mixed with his darker-dressed warriors.
Rain Crow charged headlong into another white-clad warrior. The impact of their bodies thumped hollowly. Rain Crow recovered first, but his enemy skipped back and blocked his savage attack. An eternity passed as they swung at each other. It might have been a macabre dance, each step and movement part of Death’s mating ritual.
An arrow whisked past Rain Crow’s cheek. The White Moccasin flinched; Rain Crow slammed his club into the man’s shoulder and kicked him hard in the belly. The shocked warrior staggered back, and Rain Crow broke his neck with a quick swing of his club.
For a heartbeat, he stared down at the man, surprised to be still alive, his eyes blinking. Then he glimpsed movement to his right—and a brilliant yellow bolt
blasted through his vision like lightning on a summer night.
 
 
YELLOW LANTERN LIGHT pulsed over the interior of the battered camp trailer, reflecting from the wood veneer walls and the heaping plates of enchiladas on the table. The scents of melted cheese and cumin filled the air. Dusty ate another bite of blue corn enchilada.
“You should have seen it,” Michall told Maureen as she tucked a loose strand of red hair behind her ear. “We didn’t know who she was. We figured she was cool because Maggie hadn’t chased her away. Then she and Dusty started yelling at each other.” Michall scooped up a forkful of food, and continued, “Turns out he’s reaming Ruth Ann Sullivan. The
real
Dr. Ruth Ann Sullivan, of Harvard fame. Right there in front of us!”
“Yeah.” Sylvia thumped her Coors can and squinted at Dusty. “Talk about a dysfunctional family. You guys wouldn’t even have made it to the waiting room on
Leave It to Beaver.”
“Sylvia,” Dusty warned, “give it a break.”
Michall gobbled down a big bite of dinner and continued, “The FBI went crazy, taking notes, talking on their cell phones. The excavation came to a dead halt.”
Dusty glanced at Maureen, who gave him a sympathetic look, and kept eating. He’d added whole coriander to the sauce, giving the enchiladas a real tang.
Sylvia took a sip of Coors and thoughtfully changed the subject. “You know that FBI guy, Rick? He’s a pretty good hand. Bill, however, is a worthless sack of shit. I can’t figure how a guy like that gets by. He
doesn’t like to get his fingers dirty. How do you think he deals with a bleeding corpse?”
“Lots of rubber gloves,” Dusty answered. He didn’t feel like talking. The day’s activities had left him drained and irritable. He ate another bite and crunched a cumin seed. He should have let the sauce simmer longer, but damn it, he’d been hungry—and in a hurry to be done with the day.
Michall covertly watched Dusty as she finished her enchiladas. He could feel her gaze on him. His mood had put a damper on everyone’s spirits.
When they had all finished eating and sat around sipping their drinks, Sylvia gave Dusty a knowing look, and said, “Come on, Mick, let’s get out of here. Every bone in my body is crying for sleep, and I still have field notes to finish.”
Sylvia slid out of the booth.
Michall opened her mouth to say something, caught Sylvia’s look, and said, “Sure. Okay. I’m finished with my beer.” She tipped the can and gulped the last ten swallows. “Good night, Dusty. Good night, Maureen.”
Michall pulled on her coat. At the door she said, “See you guys tomorrow.”
Through the window, Maureen watched them drive away, and stood up. She dropped her paper plate in the trash, washed her fork in the sink, and rinsed it off with hot water from the teapot. Then she set the half-full enchilada pan on the ice block in the cooler. It would be fodder for breakfast in the morning.
While she worked, Dusty walked his fork across his plate in a rocking motion. The tines left patterns in the damp paper—a sort of punctate indented design, just like that found on a lot of ancient pottery.
“She really got to you, eh?” Maureen asked.

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