The Night Visitor (21 page)

Parris smiled. The old man would be missing a good wager.

She removed a small notepad from her purse. Tomorrow—after he'd had time to think about what he shouldn't say—might be too late. “Perhaps you could tell me just a few things about the excavation. For my outline.”

“Well, I'm not really supposed to say anything about—”

“Please.” Anne hit him with the man-melting smile.

McFain knew full well that he should say nothing whatever about the age of the bones. Or the butchering marks. And most important of all, he must not breathe a word about the flint skinning knife that'd been found under the beast's jawbone. He understood all of these things perfectly well. But this woman's eyes were so large. And so blue. And Nathan—though well past middle age—was not yet dead.

So he spilled his guts.

While he was talking, Anne noticed the framed artifact on the mantelpiece. When he finished his account, she said: “The skinning knife… I'd give anything to have a look at it.”

McFain hesitated; his gaze left the beautiful woman long enough to fix itself on the framed flint blade. “There it is,” he said. Boy, Moses Silver would be fit to be tied.

She approached the massive fireplace for a closer look at the artifact. “May I take it down?”

“Sure. Help yourself.” Some fine pair of legs she had. Nope, there wasn't nothing at all wrong with this woman. He wondered whether her young man knew how lucky he was.

Parris knew he was lucky. But he wasn't feeling so young.

Anne brought the wooden frame to Nathan McFain. She leaned on his chair. Her long, wavy locks hung close to his ear.

The old man felt his pulse racing. Well, now. Maybe she'd sit down on the arm of his chair, just like that other woman who'd brought the court order.

But alas, she did not.

Anne stared intently at the blade fashioned of delicate pink stone. “It's quite impressive.” But she was wary of such an unlikely tale. The journalist remembered what she'd learned in North American Archaeology 101. The “first Americans” had arrived about twelve thousand years ago. It didn't take a math whiz to deduce that a thirty-one-thousand-year-old fossil mammoth skeleton in Colorado was far too ancient to have been butchered by humans. Something was wrong here. “Mr. McFain… you're absolutely certain this artifact was found with the mammoth bones? I mean in close proximity?”

“Sure,” the rancher said with just a trace of indignation. “I was there when it happened. Watched 'em dig it out from under his jawbone.”

“So the mammoth is a ‘he'?”

“That's what those eggheads say. A full-sized bull mammoth. They could tell from his… uh… pelvis.”

She shifted her weight slightly.

McFain felt his throat go dry. Great day in the morning! She had some kinda pelvis herself. The old man—who had been openly gawking—felt the chill of a cold stare from Scott Parris.

Anne sat down beside her boyfriend. Quite close. Scotty was so
cute.
Imagine him being jealous of such an old duffer. But men could be so insecure. She considered asking permission to take a photograph, then thought better of it. The old man might say no. Better not to ask. She found a 35-mm camera in her purse. “Scotty, if you'll remove the skinning knife from the frame, I'll take a photo before Mr. McFain shows us our cabins.”

Nathan McFain started to protest. But didn't. She was such a sweet, pretty, innocent thing. And shoot fire, what could it hurt if she took a picture of an old flint rock? Of course, if Moses Silver found out, he'd be spitting up blood. The thought warmed him.

Anne took a dozen shots in little more than a minute. She would also need photographs of the mammoth bones, and Professor Silver would certainly object. But that should be no serious problem.

The rancher chewed thoughtfully on his pipe stem. Despite Scott Parris' annoyance, McFain was brazenly staring at her legs.
If you don't like it, young man, then lump it. Me looking won't hurt nothing.

Butter Flye, from her lofty perch on the spine of the hogback, entertained her imagination by staring out the small window. Much more interesting things were going on outside the trailer than inside the little television that Daddy liked to watch after his supper. For one thing, all the people who lived in the TV were very small, so they could fit inside the little plastic box. She wondered where they all went when the light in the box was turned off. They must have little beds they went to sleep in. Probably the beds were inside pretty little houses, though. Not in ugly trailers with dirty rubber wheels.

But the people she saw outside the trailer—even though they looked small when they were far away—were very large. Like the Big Bad Wuff who'd come to the ranch house. She'd watched him through Daddy's binoculars when he walked around the barn and looked across the pasture at the big tent where Daddy worked. Then the lady in the white car had come. Wuff went inside the big house with the lady. Nothing happened for a while, until the lady had come back to the white car. Then Wuff had come outside with the skinny lady who lived in the big house. The skinny lady had said something, waved her arms like she was mad, and stomped back to the big house. Wuff stood there looking at the house for a while, then he'd left in his black car.

Butter had stopped spying when Daddy came home. She
made herself a Velveeta cheese sandwich with gobs and gobs of mayonnaise. It was good with an orange pop. After she was through with her sandwich, Daddy had switched off the lights and turned on the TV but it was only a rerun of Wheel of Fortune. So she had taken up the binoculars again. It was dark, but you could still see stuff with the binoculars, even at night. Another car came. A man got out, and opened the door for a pretty lady. The lady had kissed the man when they got out of the car, so she must like him. From the porch light on the big house, Butter could see the lady's long red hair. Then they went inside the big ranch house. When they came out, the old man who lived in the big house had come with them. The pretty woman walked up to the cabins with the old man with the white whiskers, the younger man drove the car along behind them. When the old man left, the lady and the younger man had stood by one of the cabins and kissed again. For a looonnng time. Eeech! Kissing spreads germs that make people sick—that's what Mommy had taught her. So why do grown-ups want to spread germs and get sick? It was a mystery.

“Butter,” her father growled, “it's late. Time for you to go to sleep.”

Butter put her bunny pajamas on, and took the binoculars as she climbed into her small bed in the end of trailer. Daddy would sleep in a longer bed on the side, which had a center section that went up to make a dining table during the day. She pulled a small, lumpy pillow under her head and lay on her side, staring at her father. There was a small window above her bed and she could see out by just raising up on her elbows. But she couldn't do that now because Daddy would say, Butter what did I tell you to do now lay down and go to sleep or I'll have to whop you one. So she pulled the cotton blanket up to her chin. And stared at him. And waited. It wouldn't be long till he said it.

“Butter, close your eyes.”

“But I'm not sleepy, Horace.”

“I keep tellin' you, don't call me Horace. It's disrespectful. I'm your daddy.”

This nightly ritual done, they both relaxed. He got a beer
out of the small refrigerator and popped the cap. And gave his full attention to the brew and the TV.

“Mommy says you drink too much likker.”

“Your mamma ain't here and this ain't likker,” he shot back. “It's medicine.”

“Are you sick?”

“No. I don't never get sick, 'cause I always take my medicine. Now put a sock in it.”

Horace Flye watched the small television screen until well past the late news. He waited for his daughter to go to sleep, but her eyes were wide open. He'd learned long ago that it was no use to insist that she go to sleep. That just made it worse—she'd lay awake all night if you told her she had to sleep. So he sat there. And watched the weather report. And a talk show where people were complaining about the government. And an old John Wayne movie. Still, her eyes were wide open, like two fried eggs.

Shoot. Only female I know who's as exasperatin' as her mamma.
He faked a yawn, turned the TV off, and undressed. Horace Flye climbed into the larger bed. He counted to thirty, then faked a snore.

Within minutes, he heard regular breathing from the child. Taking care to make less noise than a two-pound tomcat walking on a wet log, he slipped into shirt and trousers. And buttoned his heavy winter coat. He switched on a tiny nightlight, and stood quite still, watching his daughter. Her lips were barely parted, her breathing even. Yep, Butter'd sleep like a sack o' beans all night now. Not that there was all that much night left. But he had an invitation. A very special invitation.

Horace Flye slowly turned the latch. The hinges on the aluminum door were well-oiled, so he hardly made a sound as he left.

A moment after the door was closed, the child was fumbling frantically for the binoculars. Daddy was
so
easy to fool. She propped the heavy instrument on the narrow aluminum windowsill and watched him make his way down the winding path that led to the cabins. He stopped once to look back, and she caught her breath. But Daddy must've not seen her in the window, because he turned and started down the
side of the ridge again, walking real careful. Like a man afraid he might step into a hole.

The child watched her father pause by a cabin. She lost sight of him as he turned the corner toward where the front door was. She focused the binoculars on the side window, and got a glimpse of him being let inside. He had a big smile on his face. Then someone pulled a red curtain, and she couldn't see anything at all.

But she wasn't sleepy. Not at all. Butter Flye felt like something was going to happen on this night. Something important. So she'd just wait and see what it was. But in spite of premonitions, little children must have their rest.

So she did eventually drift away.

Daisy Perika has been sleeping quite soundly for hours. And—heaven be praised—almost without troublesome dreams. But now, not long before the sun will float up like a yellow balloon over the San Juans, the shaman begins to be troubled in her slumbers.

It is so peculiar. I'm not me. I'm someone else. And my head hurts like thunder. And I'm laying here flat on my back. It's dark, and wet and awfully cold. And now somebody's throwing dirt in my face! Stop that… stop …

The dreamer tries to move her arms… but is paralyzed. She opens her mouth to call out. No sound will come.

God… please send someone to help me!

Sarah Frank, hearing the awful groans and moans, slipped out of her bed and scooped up the sleeping cat from his box. The child hurried to the old woman's bedroom, and held the creature close to Daisy's face. “Wake her up, Mister Zig-Zag.”

Whether the sleek black feline understood the child's command is a matter for conjecture. But the animal did lick the old woman's lips with his corrugated tongue, which had the texture of gritty sandpaper. Moreover, he did this with some gusto.

Daisy Perika awoke with a terrible start, to feel something loathsome scratching against her mouth—and a pair of bright yellow eyes staring into her own. She raised herself on one elbow and swatted viciously at the animal. “Aaaaaa… get away from me!”

Mr. Zig-Zag, who attached not the least importance to the unpredictable emotions of human beings, was not at all bothered by this abrupt rejection of his ministrations.

Sarah, on the other hand, was hurt by this inexcusable rudeness. She drooped her lower lip. “He was only trying to help, Aunt Daisy. You were having a bad dream and we wanted to wake you up.”

Daisy collapsed back onto her bed, gasping for air. Compared to being smooched on the mouth by a filthy black cat, being buried alive didn't seem half-bad… but what had brought on such an awful dream?

Something I ate, most likely.

Butter Flye had awakened to find herself still alone in the small trailer. She lay on her back, listening to the wind moan in the big pine trees. It was calling to her—saying something scary she didn't want to hear. The child clamped her hands over her ears. Butter wondered where Mommy was. And wished Daddy would come home. She felt terribly alone.

But she was not alone.

Just outside the trailer, there was a ripple in the darkness.

The mud-caked figure made not the least sound as he placed his hand close to the window… within inches of where the child's head rested on a lumpy pillow. His grimy fingertips almost touched the glass… but not quite. The Magician did not see her. But he was acutely aware of her warm presence, and it pleased him.

This was the one he had been waiting for.

The child was startled by familiar sounds. First, the door of Daddy's truck opening with a whining squeak. Then it closed with a solid thunk. She heard the starting motor grind for the
longest time. Finally, the engine sputtered to life. She got up on her elbows and watched while the truck moved away slowly… leaving her and the trailer behind. Along the long dirt road that followed the knobby spine of the ridge, then down into the valley where the headlights illuminated trees and bushes. It kept on going. Past the cluster of cabins among the trees. Right by the big house where Daddy's boss lived. Along the driveway and under the big sign at the main road. And then it was gone, like a firefly swallowed by an owl.

The child was not alarmed. From time to time, Daddy would leave in the middle of the night. Usually, he'd come back home just before dawn. “Cattin' around,” Mommy had called it. That was one of the reasons Mommy had left them. Butter thought. Because Daddy went out a lot at night. That and he never had no money and he drank like a fish. But she wondered what “cattin' around” meant. Maybe he was out looking for cats. The ways of grown-ups were mysterious and not much worth thinking about. So she laid down on her small cot and pulled the cover up to her nose. And closed her eyes to the darkness.