Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries (50 page)

Read Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries Online

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

BOOK: Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries
9.95Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Browser rested his right fist on the hilt of his belted war club. Casually, he said, “I plan on freeing him before that happens.”
But only just before. Every time he looked at the old man, anger stung his veins.
Pigeontail straightened up and gave Browser a worried look. “I came to talk with you about Obsidian.”
“What about her?”
Stone Ghost gripped Browser’s forearm. “I didn’t tell you last night,” he said softly, “because I thought she still might return, and you needed your sleep desperately, but she is gone.”
“Gone?” Browser started. “You mean she never came back?”
Stone Ghost nodded, and his wispy white hair caught the morning sunlight. “Since the battle went as you’d planned, I assumed she had succeeded in luring the White Moccasins down the staircase, but something must have happened after that.”
Pigeontail took a deep breath and said, “I don’t normally bend my rules, War Chief.”
“But you are going to this time,” Browser replied stiffly, and his fingers tightened around his club. “If you know something, you had best tell me.
Now
.”
Pigeontail held out both hands in a gesture of surrender. “That’s why I came. To tell you. Obsidian apparently climbed down the staircase after the fight, and Shadow captured her when she started across the battleground.”
 
 
DUSTY SAT ON the Bronco’s tailgate, his legs swinging. He, Maureen, and Yvette were lunching on cold enchiladas. Two vehicles down, Michall, Sylvia, and the FBI guys sat in Michall’s blue Durango and worked on sandwiches and cans of pop. He looked at Maureen, trying to read the thoughtful expression on her face. She kept glancing curiously at him, probing for his response to the morning’s findings. The odd one out, Yvette, stood to one side, chewing thoughtfully on her enchilada. She used copious amounts of Coke to soften the impact of the spices. Evidently jalapeños weren’t common fare in London.
“Beer and bones,” Yvette said, a perplexed look on her face. “It’s just so blinking peculiar.” Her gaze took in the canyon, tracing the cold sandstone walls. “All of this is. It’s hard to believe that people lived here, let alone that they still do.”
“You’re just not used to it,” Maureen said. “I grew up in Ontario, in the forests. My country is cool and green and I live on one of the largest lakes in the world. The first time I stepped off an airplane in Albuquerque, it was complete culture shock. From Toronto to Chaco in one day, slap, bam.”
“But this place, it’s so bizarre.”
“It’s pretty normal to me.” Dusty bit off another hunk of enchilada and washed it down with a swig from his soda can.
“But it’s so bloody far from anything like civilization!” Yvette cried.
“Hip hip, hooray,” Dusty answered. “That’s the whole point.”
Yvette gave him a blank stare.
A mud-splattered automobile was making the curve on the loop road, its top just visible across the winter brush. He could hear it, slowing, making the right onto the Rinconada road.
“Company.” Dusty pointed with his enchilada. “This guy’s got guts to do it in a two-wheel drive vehicle that’s that low to the ground. From the looks of it, he just hammered the accelerator and blasted his way through the mud puddles on a hope and a prayer.”
The Chevrolet pulled into the parking lot, swung wide, and pulled up in front of the interpretive sign. Two semicircular arcs had been left by the wipers as they sloshed the mud from the windshield. The hood, grille, doors, and even the roof were mud-coated. Gunk on the side windows darkened the interior, shadowing the single occupant.
“Heads up,” Maureen said cautiously. “If that’s who I think it is …”
Dusty took another bite of enchilada. At the same time his nerves started to tingle. No, this wasn’t going to be some tourist out to see the sites.
The man who opened the door had a beanpole figure, his white hair pulled back in a ponytail and clipped with a silver clasp studded with turquoise. His thin face, long nose, and startling blue eyes gave him a mature look. Dusty figured him for his early sixties. He wore a brown canvas duck coat, the kind sold in places like Eddie Bauer stores where the trendy bought “outdoor” clothes in Santa Fe. A garish silver belt buckle with big chunks of turquoise snugged a woven-leather belt around his slim hips. Expensive ostrich-skin boots were on his feet.
“Bloody hell,” Yvette whispered.
“You know him?” Dusty asked.
“Hello, Father,” Yvette called. “I fancied you’d show up eventually.”
Her father?
It took a moment for the meaning to sink in.
“Want to go meet Carter Hawsworth?” Maureen asked. “Just promise me you won’t do anything dumb—like get yourself thrown in jail for murder, eh?”
Dusty set his half-eaten enchilada down, wiped his fingers with a paper towel, and swung down from the tailgate.
Hawsworth stepped up to Yvette, his head cocked, a pinched expression on his face. His first words were, “I want you to know, I don’t hold it against you personally.”
Dusty almost recoiled at that familiar English accent. He’d listened to it enough on the answering machine tape. He could still hear that voice saying,
“I’ll be your worst nightmare.”
“Thank you, Carter. It’s not like I was consulted, you know.” Yvette had crossed her arms, the posture something a wounded child might have adopted.
“I know.” He studied her with angry blue eyes.
“Over the years you cost me nearly two hundred thousand pounds. Isn’t that an incredible amount to lose to fraud? Had your mother swindled that sum through fraudulent FTSE investments, I could have her locked away for life. But since you were a child, I have no real recourse.”
Dusty blinked, asking Maureen from the side of his mouth, “What’s a pound worth?”
“About a buck fifty, U.S.”
Yvette’s expression had cooled even more. “Did you come to present me with a bill, Father?”
Hawsworth finally smiled, the expression anything but warm. “In the first place, I’m not your ‘father’ as we both now know. In the second, I would, if I thought I had a dog’s chance in hell of collecting.” His eyes narrowed. “But I wouldn’t bill you, Yvette, I’d send it to your foul bitch of a mother.”
“And have a right jolly time getting her to pay,” Yvette replied bitterly.
His eyes seemed to burn as he said, “Oh, fear not, Yvette, your mother shall have her comeuppance. From now on, I’m the cunning spider in her life. And she knows it. No matter what it takes, I
will
destroy her. And, why, yes, you can tell her that. See what sort of expression you get?”
“I couldn’t care less what the two of you do to each other. Your squabbles are your own.”
“You’re not the least bit sorry for poor old Mum?”
“If you recall, we’ve both been lied to. Very well, what do we do now, you and I?”
“Nothing.” Hawsworth stuffed his long fingers into his back pockets. “The nice part is that we don’t have to perpetuate the lie anymore, Yvette. Don’t you find that liberating?”
“Oh, indeed,” she replied stiffly. “In more ways than you could know.”
He shook his head. “I must say, it’s quite something to discover that you’ve been a cuckold. I swear, I’d kill
Dale for doing this to me—but some bastard beat me to it. Were it me, I’d have made him suffer a bit longer before I put him out of my misery.”
Dusty’s universe collapsed, funneling itself into the image of Hawsworth’s face. A vague comprehension of the man’s expression imprinted: the transition from loathing and anger to downright fear …
“Dusty!
Dusty!”
Maureen was screaming into one ear. The words intruded, bringing him back to the here and now. Her frantic hands were tugging on his arm, trying to break his hold. He was standing, his fists knotted in the lapels of the thick duck coat, his knuckles pressing together as he lifted Hawsworth up on his tiptoes, and half choked the man.
“Dusty, let him down!” Maureen was screaming.
Despite heart-pumping anger, Dusty forced himself to relax his hold and step back. His hands kept grasping and knotting in the air. “You son of a bitch,” Dusty whispered. “You’d better be glad I’m not—”
Hawsworth stumbled back, face white, a hand to his throat. “You
assaulted
me!”
“What’s the trouble here?” Bill asked as he advanced from Michall’s Durango. He was still chewing some of his sandwich as he wiped crumbs from his blue FBI coat.
“Hey, Bill,” Dusty managed through gritted teeth, “meet Carter Hawsworth, returning to the scene of the crime … just like Agent Nichols figured he would.”
Bill was watching them, a hard expression on his face. Rick had come to back him up. Michall and Sylvia, large-eyed, stood behind them. Sylvia held a handful of cheesy fishes; Dusty could hear them crunching in her tightening grip.
“Please, don’t hurt him, Dusty,” Yvette said from the side. “He may be an ass, but he was fair with me.”
“Dusty?” Hawsworth asked, and his mouth dropped open. “Oh, of course. You’re Sam’s little snotty-nosed boy. The one Ruth couldn’t wait to be rid of.”
Dusty’s universe had begun to narrow again, but Maureen reached out, restraining his arm and dragging him back as he started forward.
Carter looked at Dusty as though he were a species of insect. “Yes, breeding will tell. The nasty little boy becomes a burly bully.”
“Father”—Yvette stepped in front of Hawsworth—“stop trying to provoke him.”
“You grew up with him?” Dusty asked Yvette. “You’re lucky you’re not a basket case.”
“Like you, Mr. Stewart?” Hawsworth asked. “You should have seen yourself as a child, dirty, whining, forever with your finger in your mouth. When I think of you, I associate you with the stench of urine. I do hope you finally grew out of that.”
Maureen’s grip tightened on his arm. “Leave it be.”
Bill stepped up. “What are you doing here, Dr. Hawsworth?”
“I came to see where Dale was killed.” Hawsworth shifted his attention to the FBI agent. “This is still public property. I am violating no law.”
“Just came for a look-see, huh?” Bill reached into his back pocket and pulled out a notebook. He checked his watch and noted the time, jotting down notes. “It’s not exactly an easy place to get to, is it?”
“No. And I have little to say to you. I gave my statement to your Agent Nichols. If you have any other questions, I refer you either to that document or to my lawyer.”
“Yeah.” Bill cocked his head. “I read your statement. I was fascinated by the fact that you couldn’t account for your whereabouts on Halloween night.”
“As I told Agent Nichols, I was out on the Navajo Reservation, doing research.”
“I read that. On plants.” Bill gave him a quizzical look. “I couldn’t pronounce the name.”
“
Toloache,
” Hawsworth said condescendingly.
Dusty exhaled hard, immediately drawing Bill’s attention.
“Tolo—,” the agent began.
“
Toloache
,” Dusty finished, his hard gaze on Hawsworth. “I’m sure that poor Agent Nichols, like a good East Coast city cop, had no idea what you were talking about.” He reached over and eased Maureen’s hand from his sleeve.
“What is it?” Bill asked, his pen poised.
“Sacred datura,” Dusty replied. “It’s a pretty common plant out here. Normally it’s hard to find this time of year, but we hadn’t had a freeze up until Halloween. The monsoon season was good and rainy this year. Lots of moisture, lots of blooms. Let me guess, Dr. Hawsworth, when you’re not busy seducing other men’s wives, you’re an ethnobotanist, right?”
Hawsworth crossed his arms, head back. “My, you really are a younger edition of your mother.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Dusty said, “and I have a very long memory. It goes back to the times when you couldn’t keep your hands off Sam Stewart’s wife. Along with memories of you, I have a good imagination. I can visualize poor Sam as he crawled up on the sink and stuck his finger into the light socket.”
“Well, I didn’t make him do it!” Hawsworth replied.
“Maybe not. But you made it a lot easier.”
“You
do
have a good imagination.” Hawsworth chuckled and waved a hand at Yvette. “Can you also imagine your mother with lots of different men? Even Dale? Yes, the good Dale Robertson, planting the sweet young Yvette in your mother’s belly.”
Yvette blinked and pain lit her eyes.
Dusty said, “Why did you say that to her?”
“Wait until you’re stiffed for two hundred thousand quid and made into a bloody fool before the world. It sours the milk of human kindness.”
“While you’re feeling sour, I have something else to bring up.”
“What would that be?” Hawsworth looked amused.
“A tip for Bill, here. He needs to write it down in his little book. It’s interesting that you told him you were out looking for
toloache
Halloween night.”

Other books

Trefoil by Moore, M C
Paper Rose by Diana Palmer
Buy a Cowboy by Cleo Kelly
Nacho Figueras Presents by Jessica Whitman
Whatever by Ann Walsh
Mia's Dreams by Angelica Twilight
Nova Scotia by Lesley Choyce
Guardian by Catherine Mann