The Night Visitor (25 page)

Moon nodded. “Could be.”

“If it's the kid you're worried about, Charlie, I'll make some arrangement to see she's looked after. At least till the… uhh… authorities can do something with her.”

“That's thoughtful of you, Nathan. But it's been taken care of.”

“Who's gonna look after her?”

“My Aunt Daisy.”

The old man frowned suspiciously. “What happens to that hillbilly or his kid ain't no concern of the Utes.”

“Might be,” Moon said. “Flye's truck was found on tribal land.” But the Ute policeman thought about Nathan's offer. It made some sense. After a few days, Daisy would tire of taking
care of two children. And if… no,
when
Horace Flye sobered up and remembered he had a daughter, the McFain ranch was where he'd expect to find her. It was hard to imagine the cantankerous Nathan taking care of a little girl. But Vanessa would enjoy Butter's company for a few days.

Jimson Beugmann's intrusion interrupted these thoughts. The deaf ranch hand pulled a dusty Jeep Wagoneer alongside Charlie Moon's Blazer. He nodded respectfully at the Ute lawman; Moon returned the gesture.

The rancher scowled at his employee. “Where'n hell you been?” Nathan snapped. “There's a pile of work to be done.”

Beugmann—who had difficulty lip-reading Nathan when the old man talked too fast—was unfazed by this onslaught. He fumbled for the notebook in his coat pocket, then penciled a response.

I'LL GO START THE DOZER UP

Nathan spoke more slowly. “The bulldozer? What for?”

More hurried scribbling.

THOUGHT ID MAKE THE POND A COUPLE FEET DEEPER

“The damn pond's deep enough already,” Nathan snapped. “And Horace Flye's not at work today. So you head over to the tent and lend them eggheads a hand with the diggin'.”

The deaf man—who had understood barely half his employer's words—shrugged, put the Jeep in gear, and chugged past the barn and across the pasture, leaving a trail of silence in his wake.

“The worstest thing about bein' in any kind of bidness,” Nathan McFain said with a weary shake of his grizzled head, “is findin' yourself some reliable help.”

The small lake, named after the Capote band of Utes who had originally inhabited the lands near the headwaters of the Rio Grande, is situated in the southeast armpit of the T where Route 151 drops off 160 like a taproot. Officer Daniel Bignight
was parked just outside the gate across the graveled road that meandered down to the water's edge. The Taos Pueblo man had drunk a quart of sugary coffee and consumed a half dozen jelly-filled donuts before he saw the familiar black Blazer approaching from the south. Pleased to have company, he waved happily at Moon.

Charlie Moon got out of the Blazer; a sudden gust of wind helped him slam the door. “Mornin', Daniel.” He frowned at the open gate. “How come that ain't locked?”

Bignight shrugged. “Somebody from the fishery department must've been here in the last coupla days, stocking the lake with rainbows. Deerskunk, probably. You know how he is about gates.”

Moon did know. Arthur Deerskunk was conscientious enough when it came to looking after the tribe's fishing interests. But the absentminded man had probably never remembered to lock a gate in his life. He was about to ask where Flye's truck had been found, when he saw it. The police officers walked down the lane toward the lake, whose mirror surface was a shimmering picture of pale blue sky dotted with feathery wisps of cloud. The pickup was in a small grove of willows. It sat precariously on an incline. Almost like Flye had considered driving into the waters, then thought better of it.

“No sign of the owner, I guess.”

“Nope,” Bignight said. “I don't think he's gonna show.” He tended to have hunches about such things. They were rarely off the mark.

Moon paused by the old vehicle and frowned at the marshy bank. “Flye's that Arkansas fella who got into a fight over at Tillie's Navajo Bar and Grille.”

Bignight grinned. “Sure, I remember 'im now. They say Curtis Tavishuts just about chewed his ear off.”

“He's been working at Nathan McFain's ranch. Keeps a little camp-trailer in McFain's RV park. He left in his pickup last night… sometime after two
A.M
., I guess.” He glanced meaningfully at his fellow officer. “You don't suppose he decided to take a… uh… swim.”

Bignight—who understood the euphemism only too well—
shook his head. “Early this morning—I must've got here a good hour before sunup,” he pointed a stubby finger at the lake, “there was a thin skim of ice going out about six feet from the bank.” It had melted in the late morning sun. “After I found the truck, I walked around the whole lake. The ice wasn't broken nowhere, Charlie. He couldn't of gotten into the water without stompin' through some ice.” Bignight grinned. “Not unless he took a helluva big flying leap.”

Under the circumstances, Moon didn't think the remark was funny. But then Daniel Bignight didn't know about little Butter Flye. “Anything we can learn from the truck?”

“Nothing much. Except he left the keys in the ignition. And there're a half dozen dead Coors cans in the cab.” Both men were silent for some moments.

Moon stared at the lake. Trying to dismiss the absurd image of Horace Flye leaping over the ice like a gazelle.

Bignight kicked a bald tire. “Maybe he came out here, sat around long enough to kill a six-pack. Then his truck wouldn't start.”

Moon nodded absently. If that was the case, Flye might have attempted to walk back to the McFain ranch. And got lost in the wilderness. City-bred deer hunters disappeared out here almost every year. Some were never found.

Daniel Bignight eased his fleshy frame into the cab, and scooted behind the wheel. The policeman tapped his right foot on the accelerator pedal, stomped his left onto the clutch. “I always liked these old pickups. Give me a straight shift any day. Better gas mileage. And a man feels like he's driving a honest-to-God truck when he's got a standard transmission.”

“Give it a try,” Moon said.

Bignight turned the key in the ignition. The engine cranked. And cranked.

Moon recalled Flye's instructions. “It needs some choke.”

Bignight pulled the choke button and tried the starter again. The old V-8 coughed, then sputtered to life. Bignight looked at the tall Ute, and stated the obvious. “Nothin' wrong with the truck, Charlie. Maybe he just got too drunk to start it.”

Moon nodded absently. He pulled on his gloves. One by one, he picked the empty Coors cans off the floorboard.
Sniffed at them. Odor wasn't all that strong. He turned each container upside down to see if anything was left. Not a drop. Evaporation had had time to do its job. So these cans hadn't been emptied last night. “Arrange to have the truck taken back to Ignacio, Daniel—and bag everything in the cab.” He glanced at the rear of the pickup. “And the bed, too. This looks like he just went off and left it, but let's treat it like …” His voice trailed off. Like what? Like a little girl's father wasn't ever coming home again? There was no evidence of that. Horace probably had a bottle with him. He was probably curled up somewhere under a willow, sleeping off a drunk.

Maybe not.

Charlie Moon had his share of hunches too.

Scott Parris drove slowly with a wary eye on the rearview mirror—watching the camp-trailer bounce and weave behind the Volvo. Anne was beside him. The old Ute woman was in the middle of the rear seat, with a little girl on each side.

The chubby blond child got up and leaned on the seat behind the driver.

Parris frowned at her image in the mirror. “You oughta sit down.”

Ignoring this suggestion, Butter Flye put her grubby hand on his shoulder. “Do you live in a house?”

“Sure.”

She ran her finger along his collar. “I allus lived in that little trailer with Daddy and Mommy. But someday I'm gonna live in a nice white house. With green shutters. And a big yard. With lots of grass and trees. And birds.”

“Good for you, kid. Now sit down.”

Anne Foster had barely heard the conversation between her boyfriend and the waif. The redhead was lost in her own thoughts. She had two dozen photographs of the mammoth excavation, including close-ups of the “butchering marks.” And Moses Silver had confirmed what she'd heard from Nathan McFain. This was the most important North American archaeological discovery since the fluted spear points were found in association with fossil bison and mammoth bones near
Clovis, New Mexico. And that was more than sixty years ago. She'd have to move fast, before someone else got wind of this. But she had already telephoned the science editor at
Time
—and Bernie was hot to trot.
Get the manuscript to me by day after tomorrow
, he'd said,
and we'll make next week's issue.
This would be an all-night job at the word processor—and in the darkroom. One way or another, the draft and photographic prints would be going out by Air Express tomorrow morning.

Daisy Perika, settled placidly on the rear seat, had said not a word since they pulled away from the McFain Dude Ranch. Except for Butter Flye's remark to Scott Parris, the girls, one at each of Daisy's elbows, had also remained silent. Sarah Frank was very still. Shy in the presence of the new child, Daisy assumed. Little Mothball… no, her name was Butterfly… had gathered more of her possessions when they hitched up the trailer. The chubby white child had gotten a small shoe box in her lap. The lid—which was secured with rubber bands—had holes punched in it. Like something inside needed to breathe. The Ute woman frowned warily at the cardboard container. “What've you got in there?”

Butter Flye looked up at the wrinkled face. “Somma my stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Neat stuff. Some sand. Pretty rocks. And my jools.”

The old woman cocked an eyebrow. “What's ‘jools'?”

Butter was astonished at such ignorance. “Jools is like dimuns and rubies and rhinestones and things like that.”

Daisy—who about a thousand years ago had been a little girl herself—nodded with sudden comprehension. Jewels… little bits of colored glass.

Butter Flye pulled at the rubber bands. “I used to keep Belly Button Fuzz in here.”

“Good place to keep it.”
Peculiar child.

Butter sighed wistfully. The white hamster had died just a day after Daddy named him. “Now I keep Toe Jam in here. You want to see?”

Daisy wrinkled her nose and raised a hand in defense. “No, thank you. Just keep the lid on it.” Peculiar wasn't the word. “Where're you from?”

“Black Dog Holler. That's in Arkansas.”

“Oh.” Well.

“I'm glad to be going home with you.”

“Well,” Daisy lied shamelessly, “I'm glad too.”

“The Wuff said I'd like it there.”

“The what?”

“The great big man.”

“You must mean Charlie Moon.”

Butter nodded.

A little warning bell tinkled inside her skull. Daisy squinted suspiciously at the pale little face. “Exactly
when
did Charlie say you'd like to come and stay with me?”

“When he was ridin' me on his back. Down to the big tent where they got them elephant bones.”

Daisy Perika was struck dumb. Why, he'd had it all planned out!
Charlie Moon—with his silly remarks about leaving this child with Gorman Sweetwater—he's snookered me into taking this freckle-face tubby into my home. And he'd probably misled me about how soon the little toad's father would show up. So now I got another mouth to feed.
No doubt about it. Her trusted nephew had pulled a fast one on her. She'd always thought Charlie Moon was not too bright, but oh so nice. But what a slicker and a scoundrel her young relative had turned out to be.

It made her very proud.

But not so proud that she wouldn't find a way to get even.

A
NNE
F
OSTER'S HAND
trembled as her finger touched the numbers on the telephone. She listened. It rang three times… four.

Scott Parris picked up. And yawned. “H'lo.”

Her voice was electric with excitement. “Scotty—have you seen it?”

He sat up in bed. Looked around. “Seen what?”

She shook the magazine in her hand, in a vain attempt to get his attention. “My story on the mammoth excavation. It got a full page in
Time.
The editor hardly cut a word, Scotty. And they even didn't change my title—‘Paleontologists Astonished'—or my subtitle—‘Mammoth Hunters in the Americas Thirty Thousand Years Ago.'”

He rubbed his eyes and tried to sound excited. “Wow.”

“And that's not all.”

“Tell me, babe.”

“You remember the flint blade …”

He frowned. Blade?

“… the artifact I photographed in McFain's parlor.”

Oh yeah. He closed his eyes and nodded.

“Scotty? Are you there?”

“Sure. I remember. In the frame on the mantelpiece.”

“Well, my color photo of the artifact made the cover.”

He opened one eye. “No kidding—you got the cover of
Time?”
Now that
was
something.

She shouted into the telephone. “Scotty—do you have any idea how many people—all over the world—will read my story?”

He grinned. “Hundreds and hundreds?”

“Don't be a smarty. And meet me at the Sugar Bowl. Lunch is on me.”

Some twelve thousand miles away, a cool darkness had already slipped across the barren expanse of rolling dunes, whose shimmering waves were but a hint of the underlying sea of viscous hydrocarbons. In the midst of this arid ocean, a magnificent barge lay at anchor… tethered to the distant city by a serpentine rope of asphalt. It was the collector's desert home. There were no electric or telephone lines. There were three fifty-kilowatt diesel-powered electric generators in a subbasement. And two microwave antennas cunningly concealed on the flat roof. On this night, the seas were up. A relentless wind blew gritty sand against panes of rose-tinted glass of mullioned windows set like glistening jewels in walls of pink Italian marble.