The Night Visitor (26 page)

On the third floor, behind one of these windows, a thin, nervous man sat alone. From the burning dark eyes set in a gaunt, haunted face, a stranger might have guessed him to be an artist. Or a fanatic. He was neither.

The thin man, having had his modest dinner of broiled lamb and mildly seasoned rice, was secluded in the one room in his enormous home that was totally private. No one—not his favorite wife, not even his most trusted body servant—dared enter this sanctum.

Though a minor prince among his people—an aristocrat unaccustomed to any menial labor—he maintained this small museum by his own efforts. Once each month, he cleaned the glass in the display cases with a mixture of ammonia and distilled water. Weekly, he used a red foxtail brush to remove powdery alkali dust from basalt statuary of thick-lipped Aztec potentates, Mimbres pottery embellished with red rabbits and blue lizards, hideous face masks hammered from Inca gold. Every object represented the very finest—and rarest—in its category. The fact that much of it had been stolen—that virtually all had been smuggled across international borders—that blood had sometimes been spilled… this only served to sweeten his pride in the collection.

On this particular evening, he sat at an antique rolltop desk with a small cup of aromatic Turkish coffee. An unfiltered American cigarette dangled from his thin lips. The collector stared at the magazine cover, much as an overheated juvenile would drink in a Miss November centerfold. Indeed, the prince was filled with a burning desire… an unnatural lust. For this treasure. For the oldest flint implement ever discovered in the Americas.

This unique, beautiful artifact spoke to his soul. Softly. Seductively. Like a faraway lover.
Bring me to you. I will be yours alone… forever and forever.

His lips moved in a silent whisper. “And so you must. And so you shall.”

According to the article in
Time
, the priceless artifact was hanging in a frame over the fireplace in some old fool's house. Within a short time, it might not be so available. It would be necessary to act quickly. The wealthy man picked up a blue telephone, and was automatically connected to the EUTELSAT W-Series communications satellite positioned in a stationary orbit far above the eastern Mediterranean. He dialed a number with a British prefix. An unlisted Oxford number.

After three rings, there was an answer. “Yes?”

The Arab chose his words carefully. “We have business to discuss.” He allowed a pregnant pause. “Urgent business.”

“Certainly. Shall I pop over?” The expense account was more than generous.

“That will not be necessary. I shall arrive at Heathrow tomorrow evening. On Lufthansa—the usual connection through Berlin.”

“Very good, sir. My driver will meet you.” In the Rolls, of course.

Charlie Moon pulled the big SUPD Blazer off the paved road. He shifted into low and eased along the partially graveled lane that wound down the long incline toward Capote Lake. He stopped on the spot where Horace Flye's old Dodge pickup had been found by Daniel Bignight, and shut off the ignition. And set the parking brake.

Moon stared at the shimmering surface of the cold waters. And thought his thoughts. And then he remembered something. Something so very simple.

Butter Flye had said her father had drove off late that night in his pickup. There was no reason to doubt that she'd heard the truck engine start up sometime past midnight. But like all of us, the child made reasonable assumptions. For example: that it was her father who drove his pickup away in the middle of the night. The Ute policeman didn't know who had driven the truck away from McFain's RV campground on the top of Buffalo Saddle Ridge… and to Capote Lake where it was abandoned. But Charlie Moon was dead certain about one point.

Horace Flye had not parked the pickup on this slope at the water's edge.

Moon sat at Daisy's table, sipping his after-lunch coffee. The old woman was running hot water into a sink filled with dirty dishes. The girls had left the table and disappeared somewhere into the far bedroom where Butter Flye now slept with Sarah. Daisy squirted lemon-scented detergent into the water; she looked over her shoulder to make sure the children were out of earshot. “What've you heard about that
matukach
skunk who ran off and left his daughter?”

Moon drained the cup. “Nothing.”

“So what are you doing? Waiting for something to happen?”

“SUPD has bulletins out to half a dozen states with Flye's name and description.”

“So why don't you call in the FBI?”

“The Feds wouldn't be interested. There's no evidence a major crime was committed on tribal lands.”

“Well, how long am I supposed to take care of his little girl?” Daisy whispered hoarsely. “She eats like a starved pig.”

Moon was about to respond when Sarah Frank returned to the small kitchen, trailed by Butter Flye. “Uncle Charlie,” the Indian girl said, “lookit what Grandma gave me.” She offered a miniature treasure for his inspection.

Butter immediately scurried out the kitchen door and down the porch steps. They heard another door slam on the Flyes' camp-trailer.

“She keeps most of her junk out there,” the old woman said. “Runs in and out all day.”

The object Sarah had produced was about as big as the end of Moon's thumb. He used his fingernail to pry off the little lid. The workmanship was remarkable. “Nice. Very pretty. Your grandma make this herself?”

Sarah nodded proudly.

“Papago horsehair baskets,” Daisy Perika muttered under her breath. “What can you do with 'em? Not big enough to stuff a grasshopper in.” What foolishness.

Butter, who had returned from her brief errand, pushed her way past the older child. She plopped a shoe box on Moon's knee. “Lookit
this.”

Moon, knowing his duty, pretended to be interested. “What've we got here?”

“It's my box of pretties. You want to see inside?”

“You better watch out,” Daisy muttered as she scrubbed a blackened skillet. “The child claims she keeps belly button fuzz and toe jam in there.” She grimaced. “Ugh.”

“Well,” Moon said, “I don't know. That kinda stuff don't appeal to me all that much.”

“Silly,” Butter said, “Belly Button Fuzz was what Daddy named my hamster.”

Daisy, who was banging pots and pans around in the cupboard, lost contact with the conversation that followed. Sarah Frank—annoyed at being upstaged by the upstart—had withdrawn to the far bedroom with her tiny horsehair basket.

Moon tapped his finger on the perforated box lid. “So, you got a real live hamster in there?”

She shook her head. “Belly Button Fuzz died.”

“Sorry.” But she hadn't said the corpse wasn't in the box. “I hope you gave your pet a decent burial.”

Butter Flye nodded. “Daddy put him in a plastic san'wich bag. I dug a little hole in a cornfield. Then we said some prayers.”

“I guess Mr. Fuzz was up there in years, so it was his time to go.”

“No, he wasn't all that old. Daddy said it was liver trouble. Belly Button Fuzz drank too much beer for his own good.”

“Oh.” With the Flye family, nothing was a surprise. “Then Daddy got me Toe Jam.”

Moon considered this. “Me, I'd rather have a hamster.”

She pulled the lid off the shoe box. “See?”

Moon blinked.

Toe Jam blinked back.

The plump creature was sitting on a hump of sand. The mound was littered with bits and chips of colored glass and stone. All the colors of the rainbow. Toe Jam stared up from his residence at the policeman. One thing was clear. He was unafraid of the law.

“Don't you think he's cute?”

Moon had a long look. “Cute” was not the word to describe this creature.

“And there's jools all around him,” Butter said proudly. “That,” she pointed at a chip of cherry-red glass, “is a real ruby.”

The Ute policeman pointed at a small chip of pink stone. “What's this?”

“Just a pretty rock. But this,” she put the tip of her finger on a chunk of transparent quartz, “is a big dimun. I could prob'ly sell it an' buy me and Daddy a real house.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you better keep this stuff in a safe place.”

She replaced the lid on the box. “Daddy found Toe Jam by a fillin' station where we stopped to get us a bottle of pop.”

“What's he eat?”

“Daddy mostly likes eggs and chili and cheeseburgers …”

“No, I mean the other… I mean Toe Jam.”

“Oh, he eats bugs and worms and flies. Stuff like that.”

Daisy, her task at the cupboard finished, turned around and glared at her nephew. “What's she got in that box?”

“You don't want to know,” he said grimly.

Her dark eyes snapped. “Yes I do.”

“Toe Jam,” Moon said.

The old woman shuddered and shook her head in dismay.

Moon got up to leave as Sarah returned to the kitchen. The Ute-Papago child said a shy good-bye.

The chubby blond child tugged urgently at his trouser leg. “Wuff?”

“Yeah?”

She offered him a small wad of tissue paper. “This is for you.”

Being a prudent man, he was not eager to accept the gift.

But Butter Flye pressed the packet into his hand with an impish grin. “Want to know what it is?”

He shook his head.

She ignored this cowardly reaction. “It's some of my pretties. For you.”

Moon pressed his thumb gingerly on the tissue paper and felt the sharp edges. “Well… thanks.” Now he'd have to bring the kid something in return. And something for Sarah Frank, of course. Candy, maybe. Kids like candy. And sugar gives 'em lots of energy. He started to drop the wad of paper into his coat pocket.

The little girl looked up at him expectantly, her sharp blue eyes peering through bangs of corn-yellow hair, her pumpkin freckles darkening ominously. “Ain't you goin' to look at 'em?”

“Well… sure I am.” He unfolded the tissue. Tucked inside were a dozen fragments of colored glass, a few chips of stone. A significant portion of this poverty-stricken child's earthly treasures.

She flashed him a gummy smile. “D'you like 'em?”

He nodded.

“Have you found my daddy yet?”

“Not yet.”

“You will find him, won't you?”

Charlie Moon closed the trailer door and made his way down the porch steps. Aunt Daisy was right. Butter Flye's father was missing and he'd done nothing much more than go through the usual motions. And hope the man would show up somewhere. Maybe it was time to make something happen. But how?

The Ute policeman paused and stared at the Flyes' little camp-trailer. Might be something inside he'd missed.

The tall man had forgotten what a cramped space this was. A place built for midgets. On one side of the sink, there were two drawers. In addition to a few mismatched eating utensils, there was the usual assortment of odds and ends. A can opener. An unopened pack of cigarettes. A plastic cigarette lighter. A bone-handled pocketknife. A worn whetstone. A small can of gun oil. A scattering of pennies, paper clips, thumbtacks, rubber bands. Under the sink, he found a plastic waste container, two rolls of paper towels, a small box of tools. On a shelf over the table were a few old magazines. And some stapled papers… articles by the Silvers about earlier excavations of fossil bones. Looked like Horace had cut them out of a journal. Somewhere, there was a librarian who'd like to strangle the man from Arkansas.

He opened a closet that was not two feet wide.

Not much here. A couple of shirts on wire hangers. A patched pair of khaki work pants. Neither the father or the kid had much to wear. There was a plastic bag on the floor. He removed the tie-wrap and found an assortment of stale-smelling dirty clothes. If Horace had stayed around a few days longer, maybe he'd have made a trip to a Laundromat. And taken his little daughter to town with him …

It was a melancholy thought.

The visitor inspected the parlor. The huge fireplace was rather inviting. And the mantelpiece was quite impressive. Her nervous little dog was sniffing at a pile of logs on the hearth.

Nathan McFain put his finger on the guest book page. “You can sign right here.”

“Certainly.”

The rancher watched the small woman sign the guest register. She was quite fastidious with her script, seeming to draw each letter.

Beatrice Alistait-Lewis

And she talked like a foreigner. “You're not from around here, are you?”

She scooped up the fuzzy terrier in her arms, and managed an amused smile. “How did you guess?”

“You don't talk like us.”

“I am obliged to hear you say so.”

What'd that mean?
“You from back East?”

“Very. I am originally from Aberdeen.”

“Oh.” Wherever the hell that was. “Well, I hope you like your cabin.”

“Though somewhat rustic, it will be adequate. I know we shall like the fresh air.” She kissed the dog, who returned the favor by licking her ear. “Shan't we, Sweets?”

Charlie Moon was raising his fist to knock on the door, when it was yanked open. Nathan McFain's bearded face emerged, his brow wrinkled in a surly scowl. “Come on in, Charlie.”

Moon followed the rancher into the large parlor.

Nathan waved a hairy paw. “Sit anywhere you want.”

Moon lowered his long frame into a heavy chair constructed of thick oak and stretched cowhide. “I guess it's too much to expect you've had any word from Horace Flye.”

“Nope. I figure we've seen the last of that bird, Charlie.” He rubbed his eyes and groaned.

“You look like you've had a bad night, Nathan.”

The old man turned and shook his head like a great bear. “I've been better, Charlie. A damn sight better. Seems like everything around here's goin' to hell in a handbasket.”