The Bone Man (22 page)

It looked like I had about fifty miles to travel. I had to take I-40 to Thoreau, which was sure an interesting name
for a town in New Mexico. I walked to the counter and explained I was headed to Albuquerque, but I wanted fourwheel drive. I paid for the Ford rental with a credit card—Aric said I shouldn’t, but I had no choice—and pressed the pedal to the metal.

I-40 was a pretty highway that wound through New Mexico’s high desert. I was headed east, just as if I were going to Albuquerque. The land was scrubby and dry, with blue skies overhead and air that was crystal. I traveled through the Fort Wingate Military Reservation, whatever that was, and saw signs for small towns and the continental divide. It was so different from Zuni and yet the same. I felt more at home here in the wilderness than I did in any city.

I sighed. I was alone. I was scared. Something deep in my belly told me I was still in grave danger. I could have had Hank with me. He might have come. Except he had fought me each step of the way. I didn’t want that.

Somebody had once said that fear put all our senses on alert. I hoped that was true in my case.

I saw piñon pine and juniper trees, sagebrush, tumbleweeds, and some short, sparse grasses whose names I didn’t know. The day was warm, nearly sixty. But the night would be cool, even cooler than back home. I needed to find a place to stay. I hoped that would be in Thoreau or Crownpoint, or another town I’d pass through on the Navajo reservation before reaching the vast expanse that was Chaco.

I approached Thoreau in less than a half hour. I was zoomin’. Beautiful red mesas lined the way and up ahead, a silver water tower.

Why had I thought Aric was the enemy? Made no sense. He wasn’t abandoning me or hurting me. He was trying to protect me, just like his father had. He believed in the evil that was out there, disturbing the atmosphere, the evil that had killed Delphine and stolen the Old Ones pots and left Didi swimming in blood.

I should let him handle it. He was more suited.

Except he’d said I was a part of it.

I shook my head.

Up ahead, Thoreau.

Oh.

An abandoned motel, some buildings, several schools. Not much of a town. I slowed. I didn’t even see a gas station. There was a Navajo Nation Chapter House that looked beautifully built and well maintained. Churches. And a rather lovely mission called St. Bonaventure. But not a welcoming tourist mecca, for sure. I didn’t see zip in the way of accommodations.

Over on the side of the road, a sign read
GO HAWKS
! in green and gold letters. I smiled. Some things are a constant.

I checked Hank’s watch. Not late. Only around eleven. What to do? Hell, there had to be someplace to stay in Crownpoint.

I took the left off I-40 onto NM-371 and away to Crownpoint I went.

More dust, more scrub brush, and a severe beauty I found inspiring. I checked my gas gauge. Plenty. The road grew hilly, and some small trees dotted the landscape.

Another half hour—not bad—and I arrived in Crownpoint. I looked around at the small, flat town, which was certainly larger than Thoreau. But poor, at least in dollar terms. I was aware that the Navajo in this part of New Mexico were poor, but I hadn’t realized how poor. Again, in dollars, which was very much a white man’s perspective.

A man in a checked shirt and blue bandana walked down the main drag. I pulled over. “Hello. Is there a supermarket or gas station in town?”

He nodded. “Yup. We got real modern stuff, lady.” He smiled as if it were some inside joke.

I smiled back and said, “Super.” I thanked him and drove to Bashas’ Supermarket. Sand and dust gusted around the truck as I parked next to a Chevy pickup at
Bashas’, which sat at the crossroads of 9 and 57. A good spot, looked to me.

The market was well stocked and clean and had a good feel. I ordered a sandwich at the deli, used the women’s room, and bought an ice chest, some water, juice, and Diet Coke, as well as crackers, almonds, yogurt, and V-8. I picked up a flashlight, some white socks, a
New Mexico Magazine
, the Gallup paper and four Hershey bars with almonds. I retrieved my turkey sandwich, filled the cooler with bagged ice, and asked the checkout girl where I could stay in Crownpoint.

She shook her head. “Sorry. No place.”

“None?”

“Nope,” she said. She rang up my purchases.

“Any thoughts on where I
can
stay?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Grants?”

“How far is that?”

She wagged her hand, smiled. “Maybe an hour. Maybe a little more. Depends.”

“On how I drive. Right. I’m headed to Chaco. Anything else?”

“Farmington. Up north. Should I put this stuff in the cooler?”

“Sure. Let’s.” No one lined up behind me, so she and I arranged all the groceries I’d bought in the cooler. “How far is Farmington?”

“Pretty far. Like, almost three hours. Yeah.” She nodded.

My watch now read noon. “How far is Chaco Canyon?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never been there.”

Before Bashas’ I’d passed a gas station. I’d try there and see how I did.

I filled up the Ford with regular. The guy at the station suggested Grants, too. Grants it was, which I found incredibly frustrating. I was going in the opposite direction from Chaco.

On the way back to Thoreau, I checked out my spiffy new cell phone. I had service. Cool.

While I drove back the way I’d just come, I downed my turkey sandwich. I also got an itch, as if . . . I looked in my rear-view mirror. Nothing. The road was empty.

No one knew I was here or where I was going. Maybe Hank could find me. I doubted anyone else could. I’d covered my tracks well enough.

When I got to the four-way in Thoreau, I decided to check one more thing. I drove to the St. Bonaventure Indian Mission and School. Inside, I found a nun. I realized it had been years since I’d seen a real nun.

“Sister.” I almost curtsied, even though I’d never been Catholic. “I’m looking for a place to spend the night. Someone suggested Grants, but it’s pretty far out of my way.”

She folded her hands. “What’s a pretty girl like you driving around New Mexico alone for?”

I grinned. “Sightseeing.”

Her eyes narrowed. They were gray and soft, with gray brows above them. I felt instantly guilty. I’d just lied to a nun!

She smiled. “Well, I guess it depends on the lodging you’re looking for. We have a film crew tenting just a few miles east of here.”

I held up my hands. “No tents, Sister!”

She chuckled. “Not for me, either. Most folks do go to Grants, but you look like a Navajo Pine Lodge girl to me.”

“I bet I am,” I said.

“It’s lovely. Off the beaten track. Very pleasant.”

“Perfect.”

She led me to the front door and pointed. “Right about thirteen miles from here down Route 612. Very close, really.”

“Thank you.” I turned to leave.

“You’re not in trouble, are you, miss?”

I turned back to the sister. “I might be. Believe me, Sister, I have done nothing wrong.”

She tapped her finger to her lips. “Do be careful.”

“Yes. Um, I do have a question.” I asked her about Delphine—if she knew her as an art dealer. If she’d seen her.

“No. I’d remember a beautiful Frenchwoman.” She moved closer and placed her hand on my arm. She was so short, she had to look up at me. “There would be more people in Grants who might know your friend. We’re a poor area with not much to offer.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” I kissed her cheek. “Thank you.”

I called ahead, and the Lodge’s owner, Tom McGuire, said that he had a room for me, but no one might be around, and so I should make myself at home. He even gave me a room—Number Three. He’d leave it unlocked.

It sounded like heaven. It was after two
P.M
. when I pulled into the Navajo Pine Lodge. Driving just those few short miles, the topography had become mountainous. Much like Taos, in fact, with lovely vistas and trees and even the sight of a lake.

The lodge was simple, yet comfy, as if you were stopping at an old friend’s home. I loved it on sight. I dumped what little stuff I had in my room and went exploring. The front room—I called it the living room—had a fireplace and three cozy chairs and a card table all set to go for a hot game of Spite and Malice. The TV was on, but no was seemed to be around.

“Hello?” I said. Nothing.

I was tempted to watch some tube, but I kept on down the narrow hall. Midway on my right was a powder room, with all the necessary plumbing. On my left I found a small tidy room with another fireplace, sofa, furry rug, and shelves of books. Perfect.

There was no one in that room, either, but within a few
minutes of looking, I discovered the book I was searching for. I found two, actually.

In the middle of the oak shelf sat two books on Chaco Canyon. I pulled them out and sat on couch. Bliss. The first book was for kids, which was fine by me, by authors Vivian and Anderson. It looked wonderful, but I put it aside. The second,
Chaco, a Cultural Legacy
, with its magnificent door on the cover, insisted I read it first. I got a chill when I looked closer at the cover. There, in a photo, was a frog fetish carved in some black stone, maybe jet, and inlaid with turquoise squares across its back. I had its replica at home on my mantel. Frogs were important fetishes in Zuni because of the need for rain. Made perfect sense. I hadn’t realized my frog was a replica of one found in Chaco Canyon.

I opened the book by Strutin and Huey. The first spectacular spread was of a place called Chetro Ketl. Hard not to be awed by the structures built in such a harsh climate so very long ago. I began to read and learned about great houses and kivas—rooms used by Pueblo Indians for religious rituals—and roads thirty feet wide. The pottery, so abundant, with its geometric and iconic designs, rippled down through time to the Hopi and Acoma and Santa Clara and other modern American Indian tribes.

Here was a six-toed foot and there sandstone cliffs and timbers as wide as a man. The contemporary photos were spectacular, but it was the old ones from the early discoveries that made my pulse quicken. For just an instant, I felt I was a time traveler and discoverer of magic.

And then I saw it—my first glimpse of Pueblo Bonito. The giant D-shaped building contained rooms upon rooms upon rooms, some circles, others squares, in some strange order yet to be deciphered. Snugged up against the north wall of Chaco Canyon, Bonito looked like something aliens had built for a king. I tried to picture it in its heyday
and for a minute I forgot why I was out there and all the lives that had been lost in the process.

The book was a fast read, and I raced through words and images knowing I hadn’t much time. And as I read, I felt the pull of Chaco and an odd familiarity, as if I’d walked the roads and bent beneath the T-doors years earlier. Grasses grew throughout Chaco, and in spring I assumed wildflowers blossomed among the rocks, for most of Chaco was rock and masonry and light.

The Chaco petroglyphs fascinated me, as did all petroglyphs. They were classic spirals and stars, hands and people, animals and symbols of harvest and corn and, most especially, Kokopelli, the wizard and trickster and flute player extraordinaire. At least that’s how we Anglos saw him. I should ask Aric.

I bit my lip. Where was he? Was he all right?

My Coyote-bitten hand throbbed with memory. And the future. The oddest thing about Chaco was how I knew it was pulling us all forward to some destination I could feel but not see.

I read on until my eyes grew heavy. Then I slipped upstairs to Room Three and crashed on the bed.

I awakened disoriented and woozy. Out the window, the sky had faded to a softer shade of blue. I checked my watch. I’d been asleep for two hours. It didn’t feel like it.

I showered, lathering my bumps and bruises, while trying to keep my bitten hand dry with the shower cap, a fairly annoying process. I toweled off, rubbed a second towel through my hair. I felt almost human again. Boy, I’d needed that.

I tugged on my jeans and a baggy white shirt from my limited wardrobe. Didn’t matter. I was clean and not running from someone or something. I flipped open the cell phone. Huh. I sure didn’t have much reception here, but it
might be just enough. . . . I called Aric’s cell phone, the number he’d given me days earlier. It went straight to a mechanical voicemail. Now what?

I looked around the room for a phone book. No luck. I needed to get some numbers in Zuni. I slipped on the Merrells Hank had bought me and trotted downstairs.

A blond teenaged girl in an apron appeared in the hall.

I introduced myself.

She rolled her eyes and blew a pink bubble, reminding me of Gert. A wince of pain. The girl’s cute face pruned up. “Par for the course. Pops is out somewhere.”

“Tom, the owner, you mean?”

“Nope. My pop’s Niall, the manager. I’m making dinner. Gotta get back to it.” She pivoted and fled.

“But . . .”

She didn’t even look back. Ha! Teenagers, gotta love ’em. So where was the lodge’s phone book? I walked into the living room. My steps slowed. I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing.

Slowly, carefully, I walked closer. A pot sat on a large shelf beside the fireplace. The pot was a duplicate of the one broken at the Peabody Museum in Salem. It looked just like Didi’s sketch and was sized the same.

My breath caught in my throat. Was it possible? It couldn’t be a coincidence.

I was mesmerized as I walked toward the pot. I needed a close-up view. I needed to see
inside
the pot.

Halfway across the room, a chorus of voices froze me to the purple shag carpet. I swung around. A clutch of middle-aged-to-older folks looking amazingly fit entered the lodge, all chattering away. So much for privacy. They streamed past me, cheeks flushed, doffing coats and gloves, and beelining it for the tea and scones provided by the lodge. Enthusiasm grew as one tall balding fellow opened a cabinet and began pulling out bottles of red and white
wine, Seagram’s, Old Granddad, and a host of other liquors.

The noise level escalated. A petite woman turned to me and opened her mouth.