The Night Visitor (23 page)

As before, the little round face appeared in the small window in the door. Pug nose flattened against the glass. Cold little blue eyes staring at him like he was peddling encyclopedias. Pumpkin-colored freckles splattered all over her face. What was it Yogi B had said? Ah yes.
Déjà vu all over again.

“Hi there,” he said with the most congenial smile he could muster.

No response.

“I bet you remember me, Butter, I'm—”

“You're the Big Bad—”

“Yeah. That's me.”

She tried to see behind him. “Where's the Wicked Witch?”

“That's Wicked Witch
Elena.”
He waved his hand to indicate the western end of the reservation. “She's out there somewhere. Doing something despicable, I guess.”

“She have a big black car like yours?”

This kid don't miss much. The SUPD Blazer was parked almost out of sight in the piñon grove at the foot of the ridge. “Nope. When she's on patrol by herself, Elena rides a big black broom. Goes about the countryside makin' cows go dry and mean little kids break out in freckles.”

Butter didn't smile.

This kid was a tough audience. “I need to talk to your father.”

“He's gone in the truck.”

“When did he leave?”

“Last night. When it was real dark.”

“Did he tell you where he was going?”

She shook her head. “I was sleepin'.”

He leaned on the trailer roof. “You have any idea what time it was?” Dumb question. Poor little kid probably can't tie her own shoes, much less tell time.

“I didn't look at the clock, but it was way after John Wayne went off.”

So maybe she could tell time. “Ah. And which John Wayne movie was that?”

She shrugged. “The one with all the fightin' and shootin' and Indians.”

“Oh yeah. I remember that one. D'you have any idea where your father may have gone?”

The child thought about this for a moment. “I expect he's been cattin' around. And by now he's laid out somewheres, piss-eyed drunk.”

Moon winced. “Now where did you ever hear language like that?”

“That's what Mommy always said about Daddy when he didn't come home.”

“Oh.” The by-the-book routine would be to report the situation to the Archuleta County Child Welfare officer. She'd contact the judge, the judge would notify the sheriff's office, and somebody would come out and take Miss Butter Flye into custody. They'd most likely have to rip the door off the hinges first. But that would be their problem. In the meantime he had to make sure she was okay. “It's kinda cold out here. You warm enough inside?”

She nodded.

“You got plenty to eat?”

“I'm fixing to make me a fried egg with cheese on top. And a sausage patty. And biscuits.”

His stomach growled. She must be kidding. “You're kidding.”

She gave him a puzzled look.

“No… I mean… you actually cook your own breakfast? Even biscuits?” Maybe Butter Flye is an Arkansas midget.

“I'm not a
baby.
I just turned six last month.” She held up four fingers and both thumbs. In case Wuff didn't know what a big number six was.

“Well, you be real careful. Don't bum your fingers or nothing. Hot grease is dangerous stuff.”

This man was funny. She liked that.

“I'll be back to check on… I mean I'll want to talk to your father. When he shows up.” He turned to leave.

Butter watched him make a half dozen paces down the path. With every step, she got lonesomer and lonesomer. “Mr. Wuff!”

The policeman stopped and looked over his shoulder.

“You want to have some breakfast with me?”

Moon seemed doubtful. “Well, I don't know… Do I have to eat outside?”

She unlatched the door.

It was with some difficulty that he folded his tall frame into the cramped camping trailer. He crouched to make his way through the painfully small door. At its apex, the arched steel ceiling was barely six feet from the plywood floor, so it was impossible to stand upright. The policeman was mildly surprised to discover that the Lilliputian home of the Flye family was—for the den of a scroungy-looking bachelor and his tiny daughter—rather neatly kept. The little girl wore a sacklike dress she had pulled on over flannel pajamas. She flapped around in blue cloth house slippers that were much too large. Her mother's, Moon guessed.

He assisted the child, who deftly converted her father's bed into a breakfast nook. With a bit of twisting and grunting, he
slid into the bench seat which gave him the best view of her domestic activities.

She stood on a wooden box in front of the stove and began to prepare a breakfast. The oven had been preheated. All of the required ingredients were on a scarred Formica counter at her elbow. A half-carton of eggs. A partially used package of pork sausage. Grated cheddar cheese in a plastic sandwich bag. A canister of refrigerated biscuits. Salt and pepper shakers. Various instruments for cutting, stirring, spooning, flipping. A stainless steel skillet sat on the tiny two-burner gas stove, a ring of blue flame flickering underneath its blackened bottom. Moon watched with quiet admiration as Butter made the pork sausage into patties. She plopped them into the skillet, which responded with a delicious crackling sound. When this greasy task was completed, she wiped her tiny hands on a paper towel.

This was, he decided, a remarkable child.

Expertly, she cracked an egg on the edge of a coffee mug. “How many you want?”

There was only one sensible response. “How many you got?”

She glanced at the carton. “Five.”

“Five is a nice round number.” In normal circumstances, Moon would not have thought of eating this little family's last egg. Or even their first. But by lunchtime this child would be well provided for. And when the law caught up with the scoundrel Horace Flye, he would be charged with child abandonment and jailed. The Flyes' camp-trailer would not be needed for quite a long time, so it was only sensible to clean out the small refrigerator now. Moreover, the delectable aroma made him ravenously hungry.

Butter, having disposed of the eggshells in a plastic garbage bag, smacked a long cardboard cylinder firmly against the edge of the counter. Whitish-gray dough began to ooze out. She peeled off the plump disks one by one and plopped them onto a cookie sheet. “I'll have to make alla these biscuits.” She slipped them into the oven. “They don't keep very long after you open the can.”

“Well… we'll just have to put our heads together,” the big
Ute said with a thoughtful frown, “and work out some clever way to get rid of 'em.”

She shot him a sideways glance and almost smiled. “There's a jar of blackberry jam in the cupboard.”

“There, you see? The excess biscuit problem is practically solved already.”

There was a long silence while she tended the skillet.

“Remember… watch out for the grease.”

She scowled at the skillet. “I been doin' this ever since Mamma left us.”

Another long silence.

“Maybe Daddy ain't coming back this time,” she said with a little sigh. “Mommy went away and never did come back.” She turned the piercing blue eyes on him. “Do you want cheese on top of your eggs?”

He shook his head dumbly.

She spoke without taking her watchful eye off the skillet. “D'you live in a house?”

“Yeah.”

“Daddy and Mommy and me, we always lived in this trailer. Someday I want to live in a real house.” She salted and peppered the eggs. Whenever policemen came to see Daddy, they always took him away. Now a policeman had come to see
her.
“What are you gonna do with me?”

Charlie Moon tried to speak but could not. And his appetite had said
adios.

Scott Parris held the tent door open for Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank, then followed Anne into the shelter. The visitors were pointedly ignored by the scientists, who were busy with many tasks.

Daisy—who felt as one treading on graves—remained at a respectful distance from the mammoth's partially exposed remains. Something was wrong here.

Anne Foster, noting that the child was shy, took Sarah Frank's hand and led her toward the excavation pit. Sarah paused by one of the tripod-mounted sheets of polished aluminum. And stared at her reflection in the mirrored surface. “What's this for?”

Anne explained that the reflectors were used by photographers to direct light where it was needed.

The Ute-Papago girl was satisfied with this explanation; she glanced at the clutter of large bones, then looked up uncertainly at Anne.

“It's okay. Go ask the man what he's doing.”

Robert Newton was busy in the excavation pit. He was making close-up photographs of the femur when he became aware of the little girl. He greeted the child with a grandfatherly smile. “Good morning, young lady.”

This was a nice man. She looked him right in the eye. “I've come to see the bones.”

“Ahhh… one is always pleased to see young folk who are interested in the past. Would you like to know more about the mammoth?”

She nodded shyly that she would.

The paleontologist put his work aside. He provided Daisy's youthful ward with a rather thorough explanation of the excavation. Gradually, Sarah began to ask the sad-looking little man about certain issues that were important to her. (“Did he ever have toothaches?” “Did lions and tigers kill him?” “What happened to all his skin?”) The scientist did not talk down to the child, but dealt with her queries as worthy of thoughtful, accurate answers. This made Sarah feel important. And very grown-up.

When Robert Newton had completed his conversation with Sarah, Anne Foster steeled herself. It was time to reveal her profession—and her intent to write a detailed article about their work. She headed for Moses Silver.

Scott Parris waited in a dim corner of the tent with Daisy Perika. The lawman was wondering how his darling would handle this delicate negotiation. The Ute elder thought about more fundamental issues. Birth. Life. Death. And the presence of evil. The shaman muttered urgent prayers in the Ute tongue. And wondered what might be required of her.

Polite introductions were exchanged between the journalist and Moses Silver. At Moses' invitation, Anne Foster seated herself at the card table. Robert Newton, sensing that something was afoot, had left his place in the pit to join Delia and
Cordell York. The three academics, exhibiting various levels of tension and expectation, stood—literally and figuratively—behind the chief of the excavation.

Anne took a deep breath. “Dr. Silver,” she looked up politely to acknowledge the presence of the other scientists, “none of us has time to waste. Let's get right down to business.”

York was pleased at her directness.
Poor old Moses… I'll wager he's underestimated this one.

Moses Silver nodded curtly. “Tell me how I may be of service.” You'll get nothing, his stem expression said.

“It's simple, really. I have a story to write. And I'd like to ask a few questions about what you've found so far.”
And get straight answers.
“I'll also need to take a few photographs of the excavation.” She offered him the gift of a soft smile.

Moses returned the smile. His manner, if slightly condescending, was not unfriendly. “Miss Foster, I regret to inform you that at this early stage of our work, photographs of the fossils are absolutely out of the question. Once we have published our findings in an appropriate peer-reviewed scientific journal, then—if our results should warrant it—photographs will be made available to the press.”

She tapped a ball-point pen on the card table. And stared at him with the large, blue eyes. For some seconds. Which seemed like minutes. Small beads of perspiration appeared just above Moses' upper lip.

Daisy Perika chuckled; she nudged Scott Parris with her elbow. “I'll bet you two dollars she gets to take her pictures.”

Parris, who knew his woman, politely refused the wager.

“I do understand your position, Dr. Silver,” Anne said finally, “and I respect it. No reputable scientist wishes to have his,” she glanced up at Delia, “… or her work reported first in the popular press.”

Moses smiled warily. “I'm pleased that you understand our position.”

“So,” Anne continued, “I'll simply have to go with what I have. It should be enough… though confirmation of some of the facts would have been preferable.” She reached out to shake his hand. “Thank you so much for giving me a hearing.”

Moses shook her hand like an automaton. He swallowed; his Adam's apple hobbled. “Excuse me, Miss Foster… but I hardly see how you could have sufficient information even for a story in one of your …” He'd almost said “tabloids.”

“Well, I appreciate your concern. I have enough for a terrific story.”

It was Delia who dared ask the question. “What could you possibly know?”

“The mammoth bones are well over thirty thousand years old… and there are the butchering marks.”

Moses felt his stomach churn. It had to be Nathan McFain who'd talked. The bloody idiot!

“Without your verification, I won't be able to sell my story to
Time,”
Anne said serenely, “but there are… other markets.”

Moses felt the beginnings of a migraine. “Such as, perhaps, the
National Enquirer?”

Anne smiled sweetly. He expected an immediate denial that she would submit her story to a tabloid. Let him sweat!

The implications of her non-reaction brought a chill to the ranks of the academics.

Robert Newton fairly shuddered at the thought. It would be bad enough to have a speculative story about the excavation in a respected newspaper. That, they could survive. But a supermarket tabloid that specialized in impregnations by aliens and sightings of Elvis Presley in the White House? One's reputation would be forever soiled.