The night visitor, p.25
The Night Visitor, page 25
“Rather a lurid scene,” Dr. York observed.
“Ghastly,” Moses Silver agreed.
Robert Newton nodded grimly. “One is shocked quite beyond words.”
Moses shook his head. “This is a terrible, terrible calamity.”
Dr. York squatted, and cocked his head thoughtfully. “Looks bad, certainly. But hardly what I’d call a calamity.”
“How can you be so glib?” Moses shot back. “This is just awful.”
The surgeon’s tone had a calmness bordering on arrogance. “My esteemed colleague, you are overreacting. The injury is not all that serious. With proper attention, he can be mended good as new.”
Professor Newton was speechless.
Moses Silver was wide-eyed with astonishment. “Surely you don’t mean… not even you could …”
“Certainly. I can and shall.” The surgeon squatted and pointed. “Look there… you see? Repair will be straightforward. We’ll have the old fellow back to normal in no time.”
His elderly comrades also squatted. And craned their necks to see better.
“Ahh,” Moses Silver said with frank admiration, “you’re right, by gum.” Yes indeed. The mammoth tusk had fractured quite cleanly. A little cement, and it’d be right as rain.
Robert Newton breathed a grateful sigh. “Oh yes. Well, then… one is quite relieved.”
The investigation, headed by the Archuleta County sheriff’s office, was thorough and competent. Every soul on the ranch was questioned. Moon and Bignight were significant witnesses, and told what they knew about the rancher’s unfortunate demise.
Most of what they knew.
Daniel Bignight didn’t see any compelling reason to mention the awful shriek of the “bant-shee” calling his name.
What were they doing in the neighborhood?
Moon’s explanation that they just happened to be patrolling the reservation boundary at 3 A.M. didn’t sit too well with the Archuleta County sheriff, but the Ute policeman stuck to his story.
The state police provided valuable technical assistance. The verdict was never in doubt. Death by accidental cause.
Three days later, after the coroner was finished with it, McFain’s body was released to the family.
Moon pulled the SUPD Blazer in front of the small cabin called Calamity Jane. Moses Silver, dressed in an ill-fitting black suit, was standing near the Land Rover. Waiting for his daughter, the policeman assumed. The paleontologist gave the freshly washed patrol car a brief look, the Ute policeman a polite nod.
Cordell York and Robert Newton were thirty yards away at another cabin, leaning against the physician’s rented Lincoln.
Moon turned at the sound of an engine cranking. He watched Vanessa McFain turn the Chevy van and head up the tail of Buffalo Saddle Ridge, trailing twin billows of bone-dry yellow dust.
Delia Silver appeared in the doorway of Calamity Jane. She paused, staring at Moon. Then glanced uncertainly at her father, who was pointedly inspecting an antique pocket watch. She hurried over to Moses. Father and daughter had a tense conversation. The old man shook his head in bewilderment, gave Moon an annoyed look, and got into the Land Rover.
Delia headed across the lawn of pine needles toward the Ute policeman. The young woman looked very fetching in her charcoal dress and pert little black hat. Purse and shoes to match. Yes, this was much better than faded jeans and dusty work shirts.
Moon tipped his black Stetson.
“Good afternoon,” she said. As if they were meeting for some ordinary social occasion.
Moses Silver—hunched up in the Land Rover—was watching under bushy eyebrows. Dr. York and Robert Newton were also eyeing this unexpected development with ill-concealed interest. All three men were wondering why Delia Silver had chosen the policeman’s company. What was this all about?
She looked up at the tall man with an odd mixture of suppressed anxiety and childlike hope. “I wondered whether you could give me a ride. Up to the cemetery.”
Moon nodded amiably, and opened the Blazer door. It was a long step up in her tight skirt; he steadied Delia’s elbow with his hand. He was in no hurry to depart, allowing York to take the lead, and Moses Silver to putt along far ahead in the Land Rover.
When they topped the first hump of Buffalo Saddle Ridge—at the RV park where the Flye trailer had been—Moon shifted into low gear and slowed almost to a stop. Delia’s gaze followed his. “I didn’t know that Horace… that Mr. Flye had a daughter. Not until after he… he disappeared that night.”
“I guess he kept it quiet. So Nathan wouldn’t charge him extra rent.”
They drove down into the saddle; the lane wound among a scattering of towering red sandstone monoliths. The wind was not so constant here.
“Officer Moon?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think there’s any chance of finding the stolen artifact?”
It seemed that half the county knew about the theft of the flint blade. He shrugged. “You can never tell. May already be too late. Then again… maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Her face was suddenly pale as new snow. “If you should find it… please bring it directly to me.”
Moon pulled to a stop under a great slab of sandstone that cast a long, cold shadow. He cut the ignition.
Delia looked at him with some alarm. “Why are we stopping?”
He turned to look at her upturned face. “Because you’ve got something to tell me.”
She licked her lips. “Why should I wish to tell you… anything at all?”
“Because,” he said evenly, “I’m the only one who can help you.”
She was silent for a moment. But after she started, the words fairly poured out.
On the previous day, Jimson Beugmann had used a miner’s pick and a heavy mattock to grub out the five-foot-deep slot in the half-frozen earth. He would’ve gone six but he’d hit a shelf of fine-grained sandstone that was, he thought, harder’n a Reno whore’s heart.
Today, Beugmann was dressed in spotless black trousers, his best Roper boots, and a heavy mackinaw jacket. The deaf-mute’s thin, unreadable face was half-shaded by the broad brim of a gray felt hat. In honor of the solemn occasion, he’d stuck a small raven’s feather in the band. A wind-choir hummed dark anthems in the pine branches and whipped his stringy blond hair around his shoulders. Having little status as a mourner, the lately arrived ranch hand had positioned himself well away from his former boss’ fresh grave; he leaned against the pink bark of an aged ponderosa and chewed on a dry sprig of skunk grass. Jimson Beugmann was a practical man, who planned ahead. His shovel was artfully concealed behind the pine trunk. When all the preaching and crying was finished, somebody had to stay behind and fill up the hole.
Vanessa McFain stood at the head of the coffin with her Aunt Celeste, who had come all the way from St. Louis. The minister was a wrinkled Navajo elder from Farmington; he held a much-used black Bible in his leathery hands.
Cordell York, Robert Newton, and Moses Silver stood on one side of the grave. Each of these men had, in his own way, a certain presence that added dignity to the small gathering. Delia Silver—who did not acknowledge the curious stares of her father and his colleagues—stood on the opposite side of the yawning hole in the ground. She kept very close to Charlie Moon.
This did not escape Vanessa McFain’s notice.
Presently, Delia took Moon’s arm. And leaned on him.
The Free Methodist minister raised his arms—and the Book—as if to silence the voices of the winds. The mournful humming in the trees fell to a whisper.
He began. “We are gathered here to say farewell to Nathan McFain, a loving father.” He nodded to acknowledge the last member of the McFain clan. Vanessa, who seemed to be deaf, was staring dumbly into the mouth of the grave. Wondering what it all meant. Or perhaps that was the wrong question.
The preacher continued. Speaking of the uncertainties of this life. Of how our days are numbered… and not one of us knows the number of them. Of the immeasurable love of God. And of His tender mercies. Of how men must shun the Devil.
And then the whirlwind came.
The furies howled. They slapped faces, tugged at sleeves, sucked up mouthfuls of dust, spat out sticks and stones… and uttered vile threats.
It seemed that the small congregation might be swept away.
The men choked and coughed, and attempted to cover their eyes.
Delia clung desperately to Charlie Moon’s big frame. The Ute planted his boots in the loose soil and enfolded the small woman in his arm. He gritted sand between his teeth and assured himself that this was a natural phenomena. Nothing but a dust devil… hmmm… an unfortunate turn of phrase.
Vanessa McFain stood like a lone pine. She leaned, but did not fall.
The little minister was an uncommonly stubborn man. And one who knew his enemies. He raised his Bible, and shouted above the roar:
“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, nor have entered into the heart of man the things which God has prepared for those who love Him!”
The immediate reply stung his ear. We have come to dine on a soul. This is our place. Go away.
Only the Navajo minister perceived these words from the hot mouth of the swirling vortex. Ready to do battle, the old warrior shook his fist in furious defiance. “Go straight to hell,” he shouted.
Only the voices perceived these words from the mouth of the prophet. And the whirlwind, thus rebuked, whined. It departed from them, winding its crooked way downhill… through a stand of dwarf oak… into the dark valley. And was gone.
It was over.
Most of the mourners had departed.
Cordell York and Robert Newton had left in the rented Lincoln.
Moses Silver and his daughter had chugged away in the old Land Rover; Aunt Celeste—at a signal from Vanessa—had ridden with them.
The little Navajo Methodist had gravely shook hands with Vanessa, told her that God would sort all things out, and left in his new Ford pickup.
Now only four remained.
Vanessa McFain, smothered in her grief.
By her side, Charlie Moon.
Jimson Beugmann. At a nod from Vanessa, he began filling the grave with earth.
And Nathan McFain, of course. Whose remains would rest in silence. And whose troubled soul was forever at peace.
Finally, Beugmann tamped the last shovelful down neatly. The silent man nodded respectfully at Vanessa, gave Moon an odd look, and stalked away.
Nathan’s spirit also departed.
Now there were only two.
Moon put his arm around the tall woman’s shoulders. Vanessa looked up at him through red-rimmed eyes. “God, Charlie… it’s hard.”
He nodded. His mother was buried not five miles from this spot. Over in Snake Canyon. In a cleft in the stone wall. Only last year, he had repaired the masonry wall with blue clay from the Piedra. He had no idea where his father’s body was.
She turned, and hugged him. “Charlie?”
“Yeah?”
“What’ll I do?”
“Well, you’re the boss now, so I expect you’ll have to run the ranch.”
She sniffled. “I guess so.” She didn’t feel like running anything. She felt like running. “Charlie?”
“Yeah?”
“What’ll I do first?”
He thought about it. “Well, you could tell those bone-diggers to get on with their work. Your father’s plan for a museum ain’t such a bad notion.”
“I can do that tomorrow. What’ll I do tonight?”
“You’ll go up to Durango with me. To the Strater Hotel.”
She pulled herself away and looked up at him with large eyes. “To the hotel?”
“Sure. I’ll buy you supper.”
“Oh. Is that all?”
“Nope.”
She managed a thin smile. “So what happens after supper?”
“I’ll bring you home.”
He could’ve said I’ll take you home. She pinched his arm. “And after you bring me home, Charlie… will you tuck me in?”
Moon seemed not to have heard. He was looking over her head. At something very far away. But it was coming closer. Soon, he’d be able to make it out.
She sighed. Charlie Moon always acted like her big brother. And he’d sure stuck close to that little Silver gal.
Damn! He just didn’t have a clue.
Or maybe she didn’t have quite what he wanted.
But he did.
And she did.
The dining room at the Strater was quiet, the waiter gracious and most accommodating. Vanessa McFain picked at a meatless lasagna. Charlie Moon would have enjoyed his grilled chops more if she hadn’t watched him eat every bite with an accusing eye. Like they’d been hacked right off her pet pig. Dessert, which was more relaxed, was followed by excellent coffee.
In Moon’s pickup, she leaned her head on his shoulder. It was a pleasant drive back to the ranch. Her ranch.
They took a long, moonlit walk on the near hump of Buffalo Saddle Ridge. He had little to say, except for a single question. About what had happened that night.
“What night?” she asked.
“The night Horace Flye disappeared.”
Vanessa hesitated. Then talked. She told him about waking up. Hearing an argument downstairs. Her father… and another man. Yes, it might have been Horace Flye. It must have been; her father’s employee was gone the next morning. But she couldn’t understand how Flye could have left that darling little girl behind. A man who’d do something like that ought be horsewhipped!
Moon didn’t tell her Flye was dead. Mostly to change the subject, the Ute policeman asked her about the stolen flint blade. Did she have any idea where it might be?
She hesitated, then admitted that she did have a notion. Vanessa told him about a peculiar conversation she’d overheard. It was probably too late, she added, to do anything.
He admitted—with some regret—that she was probably right.
Finally, when all was said, he took the sleepy young woman upstairs to her bedroom. And tucked her in. And sat beside her bed, holding her hand. Charlie Moon did not depart until she was lost in dreams.
That night, his own dreams were troubled.
9
MAKING THE SALE
ANNE FOSTER LIFTED her foot off the accelerator, and slowed. And watched. The journalist pulled her Mercury off the two-lane asphalt road and parked on a wide place in the road that was—according to the neatly lettered green sign—a scenic overlook. She used the telephoto lens on her 35-mm camera to watch the Mercedes. The road dead-ended at a huge bulge of basalt that looked like a gigantic, overturned pot. So he was heading toward the Iron Kettle. And if she had it figured right, the British guy who’d checked into the Cattleman’s Hotel would be along before long.
She thought about it. It wouldn’t be possible to follow Briggs along the dusty road without being spotted. Maybe even caught between the shady antique dealer and the Brit. She was not particularly afraid of Ralph Briggs; the man was about as threatening as a teddy bear. And Mr. Soames—though he had a reputation for smuggling artifacts across international borders—seemed civilized enough. But the Brit was accompanied by a thug with ball-bearing eyes set in a cinder-block head. Kind of fellow who ate nails with his Wheaties.
No, she certainly couldn’t drive her shiny new car to the Iron Kettle. Ralph Briggs and his contact must be under the impression that their business was conducted in complete privacy.
But the truth was, she needed help. She found the cell phone in her purse and dialed the Granite Creek police station. She’d tell Scotty that she had a big story about to break. He’d jump at the chance to witness an illegal exchange.
No, the dispatcher told her, the chief of police was not in his office. No, she did not know where Chief Parris could be reached. Would Miss Foster like to have Mr. Parris’ pager number?
No, that would not be necessary.
Like all his vital statistics, from hat size (XL) to shoe (eleven), Anne had the number memorized. She dialed, got the pager tone, and entered her cell-phone number.
She waited anxiously for five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
No return call.
As usual, he’d turned it off. Damn! What was the use of having your own special cop if he wasn’t there when you needed him?
What to do?
She needed to get close enough to take photographs through the telescopic lens. But not so close as to be noticed. And high enough for a good shot. Sure. On the crest of that long, pine-studded ridge, just to the south of the Iron Kettle. A perfect spot to spy on Ralph Briggs. There was a deer trail snaking along under the cover of scrub oak and ponderosa. She had a pair of hiking shoes in the trunk. And a good pair of legs.
That’s what Scotty had told her.
Ralph Briggs had arrived at the meeting place when the sun was barely over Salt Mountain. The antiquarian—who was a romantic—surveyed the hump of stone called the Iron Kettle. If he’d seen this pile of basalt first, he’d have given it a grand name. Thunder Stone Fallen from Mars. Something nifty like that.
It was an extraordinarily fine day. The musky aroma of sage was given a keen edge by the sharpness of morning frost. At the foot of the boulder-strewn ridge, Briggs’ powder-blue Mercedes sat like a fat, luminescent beetle. Waiting to convey him back to Granite Creek, some eight miles to the southeast. The automobile was parked at the edge of an unpaved road which meandered here and there in aimless fashion, wriggling like a nervous yellow snake anxious to find its way out of the dark cleft between Salt Mountain and Six Mile Mesa. The antiquarian sat comfortably in a folding canvas chair. His eyes were shaded from the sun by the branch of a withered juniper that grew out of the crack in a basalt shelf. Between puffs on a fine Costa Rican cigar, he sipped gratefully from a thermos bottle of steaming hot chocolate. The antiquarian—though by the chemistry of his genes a pessimist—was in excellent spirits on this lovely morning. He congratulated himself on his ability to sense a rare opportunity. And seize it. Moreover, he had selected a quite suitable site for a meeting. Today, Ralph Briggs felt young for his sixty-two years. Gay at heart. Definitely a man on the way up.
