The Night Visitor (27 page)

Ever since he'd known Nathan McFain, the old man had always
been complaining about one thing or another. “Anything you want to talk about?”

Nathan plopped onto a massive leather-upholstered couch that was a match to Moon's chair. “Well, for one thing, I been robbed!”

“Robbed? You mean someone held you up?”

“Well, more like burgled, I guess.” Nathan looked somewhat sheepish. “Some bastard must've snuck in here last night while I was asleep. And stole it. Practically right from under my nose.”

“Stole what?”

Nathan pointed glumly at the fireplace.

Charlie's eyes followed the gesture. He understood immediately. The frame that had been on the mantelpiece wasn't there. Somebody had stolen the flint blade. “Anything else taken?”

Nathan McFain shook his head. “Not that I've noticed.”

The old man's house was about two hundred yards from Southern Ute jurisdiction. “Have you reported this to the county sheriff?”

“Nope. Not yet.” The old rancher glanced sideways at Charlie Moon. “Hell, Charlie, it's too damn embarrassing to tell the cops. See, I left the doors all unlocked last night, like I always do. And it ain't nothing but an old flint rock anyways, so what'll the cops care if it's gone? It's not like somebody stole a horse or something. But if them bone-diggin' eggheads find out it's gone, they'll be all over me like greenflies on a warm cow pie.” He whined to imitate the tone they'd take: “‘If you'd left it with us, we'd still have it. But no, you hadda take charge of it, and now it's gone.' They'll think I'm just a dumb old fart, Charlie. So don't you breathe a word about this.”

Moon pushed himself to his feet. “So what are you gonna do?”

The rancher let out a long sigh. “Nothin' much I can do.”

“Strictly speaking, this isn't Southern Ute business.” Not unless the land survey showed the thing had been found on the People's land. “But if you want, I'll do some checking. In case someone tries to sell it.”

Nathan McFain shrugged. “Okay. Just as long as you don't let it slip that the damn thing's gone.”

Moon made no promises. It might be necessary to inform the tribal council.

“Thing is, Charlie, I don't need no extra troubles. This has been a bad week. Horace Flye takes a hike. Now I don't have nobody a'tall except Jimson Beugmann to help those scientists dig up them mammoth bones. And they aren't too happy about it, I can tell you.”

“He ought to be able to do a good job for 'em.”

The rancher made a rude horse-snort. “Beugmann's deaf as a stump and stubborn as a Missouri mule. Never will do what I tell him. If I tell him to mend a fence, he'll be off tinkerin' with the bulldozer. If I've told him to haul in some hay for the stock, then he'll be 'dozin the pond deep enough to drown any tinhorn tourist that slips in. The man has an attitude problem, Charlie. He oughta be grateful to have a job here. It ain't easy for a… a man like Beugmann to find work.”

Moon said nothing. McFain—who was a tight man with a nickel—probably wasn't even paying the deaf man minimum wage.

McFain had a full head of steam up now, and was rolling downhill. “I let Beugmann use one of my best cabins. Unless I check on him, he lets it get filthy as a hog sty. Tracks mud all over the carpet. It'd cost me a hundred dollars to get the cabin cleaned up. And to think I was too nice to ask him for a deposit.”

The policeman listened with an impassive expression. Truth be known, most of Beugmann's pay was probably deducted for his use of a cabin McFain couldn't rent during the off season. No. Beugmann wasn't much more than an indentured servant. Moon looked sideways toward the slope, where the small log structures were perched among piñon and juniper. “How many of your cabins are occupied right now?”

“Aside from Beugmann's, just the four the scientists are staying in. I had a tourist yesterday—little woman with a dog—but she checked out this morning. The pretty redheaded woman and her boyfriend left a couple of days ago—but they're friends of yours, so I guess you already knew that.”

He did. Scott Parris and Anne Foster were back in Granite Creek. “What about the guy who runs an antique store up in Granite Creek?”

“You mean that little Ralph Briggs fella? He checked out two or three days ago. Said he liked watchin' the diggin', but he had a business to run.”

“When, exactly, did Briggs leave?”

The old man shrugged. “I guess it must've been… say… Tuesday morning when he checked out.”

Moon looked over the old man's head at a decorative cluster of blue corn mounted on the paneled wall. It was probably a small coincidence that—in a manner of speaking—Horace Flye had vanished on the same morning. But very early, and under cover of darkness.

There was an almost comical aspect to the combination of Daisy Perika's house-trailer and the Flyes' small camper. The latter was pushed up close to the Ute woman's home, its rusty steel hitch sitting on a cinder block. Like a fat calf nuzzling its mother for milk.

The shadowy figure who watched from the windswept ridge had not the least perception of subtle comedy. Indeed, he had no discernible sense of humor. All through the long evening, he had kept himself well away from the shaman's lair. Finally, when the moon had slipped from behind a feathery curtain—and the last light was turned off in the old woman's trailer—the intruder approached the Ute elder's small fortress in the wilderness. The silent figure slipped past still sturdy ranks of piñon and juniper, evaded a column of barbed yucca spears, merged into the moonlight shadow of a lightning-scarred pine that stood like a tireless sentinel near Daisy Perika's home.

After several minutes, he approached the Flyes' small camping trailer. And stood in his customary silence… pondering the diminutive home that rolled on black rubber tires. He knew that it was merely an empty shell… there was no
one inside. But in the larger structure there were three human souls. And an animal. He moved toward the far end of the Ute woman's trailer home.

Where the children slept.

Time was running short. Soon, he must decide which of these it was to be. He felt a peculiar closeness to the smaller child with yellow hair… she was so like himself. But it was the dark girl who floated like a witch in his visions… she had very special qualities.

It was a difficult decision.

Mr. Zig-Zag, curled up in his cardboard box at the foot of the children's bed, raised his head. He blinked suspicious yellow eyes at the small window. Instinctively, a bristle of black hair stood up on his neck. But the cat made no sound.

Butter Flye opened her eyes and looked toward the window. She saw the pale face floating there. The child pulled the covers over her head, and closed her eyes. “Go 'way,” she whispered. “Go 'way, Booger-man.”

Sarah Frank—deep in a dreamless sleep—stirred as if aware of an unwelcome presence. But the Ute-Papago girl did not awaken.

Butter trembled under the covers, and wished Daddy or the Wuff was here to help her. A very long time passed. About eleven seconds. When she was unable to stand the suspense, the white child peeked from under the quilt with one blue eye.

There was no face in the window. The Booger-man was gone.

“And don't come back,” she snapped.

But he would.

Daisy Perika felt a deep sense of unease. A dark sinuous current, writhing like some great serpentine creature, moved just beneath the surface of her consciousness. Sleep, so greatly desired, had withdrawn like a shy dream lover… just out of reach. The old woman got out of bed and hobbled to the window that looked over her rickety porch. The moon was partly obscured by a thin haze of clouds, but her eyes were well-accustomed
to this near-darkness. There was nothing much to see outside; just what was always there. Except for the stark profile of the Flyes' little trailer. An ugly thing, she thought. Like a great bug. Daisy closed the curtains and slipped back into the warmth of her bed. Nerves, that's all it was.

The night visitor melted into the shadows. But he had made his decision.

When Butter Flye awoke that morning, Sarah Frank was already pulling on her pretty blue dress.

The white child sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. The sun was shining warmly through the window-glass on the multicolored quilt. It was a bright, real world. The Booger-man's visit seemed like a bad dream. Butter had lots of bad dreams and Daddy always said it was best not to talk about the hobgoblins and boogers and such or they'd come back to pay another call. So she did her best to forget the pale face at the window.

At breakfast, Butter dawdled. She had not finished her bowl of Cheerios when Sarah left the table to take Mr. Zig-Zag his morning dish of milk. The plump child sat and watched the old woman putter about the kitchen. After due consideration, she spoke: “Daisy, I want to ask you something …”

The old woman was annoyed. “That's no way to address one of your elders.”

This rebuke produced a puzzled expression.

“It's disrespectful. No little runt like you should be callin me by my first name.”

The little runt was not offended. “What should I call you?”

The old woman smiled crookedly. “How about Princess Minneegoochie?”

“Princess
what?”

“Oh, never mind.” She slapped the tot playfully on the head with a potholder. “What was it you wanted?”

“I don't want to sleep in the bed with Sarah no more.”

“Why not?”

“She makes funny noises and keeps me awake.”

“Noises?”

“Like this.” Butter threw her head back, closed her eyes, and opened her mouth. And produced an awful series of snorts.

Daisy grinned. “So she snores. Well, I guess I could fix you up a bed in the bathtub.”

Butter banged her spoon on the table. “But I don't
wanna
sleep in no bathtub.”

“Well,” the old woman said, mimicking the child's nasal whine, “just where do you wanna sleep?”

“In my own place. Where all my stuff is.”

The old woman glanced out the kitchen window at the Flyes' battered camping trailer. “You mean out there—in that ugly little contraption?”

Butter Flye nodded eagerly. “Mosta my stuff is out there.”

Daisy considered the request. Home—be it ever so homely—was where your stuff was. And your own bed was always the best place to sleep. Surely no harm would come of letting the little girl sleep in the camp-trailer. But like a blue-fly trapped in a bottle, an urgent warning buzzed around in the old shaman's skull. “No,” she finally said with a resolute shake of her head. “During the daytime, you and Sarah can play out there. But before the sun goes down, you got to come inside.”

Butter Flye saw that Daisy's face was set like flint and knew it would be pointless to protest. The little girl's blue eyes narrowed with outrage; her pumpkin-colored freckles took on an angry tinge of crimson. She would not be pushed around by this mean old woman.

Charlie Moon was asleep.

The telephone rang.

He groaned, rolled over, fumbled in the dark for the receiver and pressed it to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Charles? Is that you?”

“I think so.”

“I've been trying to find you.”

“You did. Have you had a chance to—”

“The task has been completed.”

He sat up on the edge of his bed, dreading either kind of news. “You have any luck?”

“Luck, my dear boy, has nothing to do with it.”

“Then you found—”

“Of course. Though—as you know—the credit is none of mine.”

“Tell me.” He listened to the terse report and experienced an odd, mixed reaction. The police officer was elated with this apparent victory. The man felt a dull coldness settle in his groin.

“… and that, Charles, about sums it up.”

“What're the chances it's a mistake?”

There was a thoughtful pause on the other end of the line. “There is, of course, always some small probability of an error. I'd estimate… perhaps one in a hundred.”

“Thanks,” Moon said grimly. “I owe you one.”

“That you do.” There was a distinct click, followed by a dial tone.

The Ute policeman stared at the telephone. And wondered what to do next. One option was out of the question.

Sleep.

So he sat at the kitchen table for a long time. Staring with an unfocused stare at the cover of
Time
magazine. Imagining a complex jigsaw puzzle—with one very significant piece lost. The weary lawman was convinced that no part of his brain was actually working. But somewhere in the darkness, something clicked. It was much like an electric shock. Had the missing piece been presented to him as a gift? Moon found his coat, removed the small parcel from a pocket. He dumped its contents onto the colorful magazine cover. For almost an hour, he used the gleaming tip of a Buck sheath knife to maneuver the small bits into various positions. But it just didn't work. No, it was an interesting little game, but the pieces simply didn't fit. He yawned. Might as well give it up. Get some sack time before the sun came up.

And then… he moved the right piece into the right place.

*  *  *

The children sat in the tiny camp-trailer, applying stubby crayons to a Denny Dinosaur coloring book.

“I guess I better go,” Sarah said. “Aunt Daisy will need me to help her clean up the supper dishes.” When speaking to the child who was two years her junior, the eight-year-old assumed a superior attitude befitting her seniority. “You better come with me.”

Butter looked out the window at the gathering hints of twilight. “So the Booger-man won't come in here and get me?”

“There ain't no such thing as a Booger-man,” Sarah said in an uncertain tone.