The Night Visitor (30 page)

Moon tipped his black Stetson. “Can I carry some of that stuff for you?”

She shrugged. “I can use some help… Some of it's pretty heavy.”

The Ute policeman had once seen her throw an eighty-pound calf over her shoulder and walk away with it. Moon took a sack of potatoes under his arm, then another of onions.

Vanessa scooped up a cardboard box. “So how's the little girl doing?”

He played dumb. “What little girl?”

“Flye's kid. I hear she's staying with your Aunt Daisy.”

“I guess she's doing okay.” He followed her to the house.

“I don't suppose you've found her father?”

He grunted, and she took this as a no.

She kicked the ranch house door open. “He's probably in Arkansas by now.”

The Ute policeman ignored the jibe.
Finding Horace Flye was no longer the issue.
Moon carried the potatoes and onions into the huge kitchen.

They made another trip to the van. She had bought a small cedar chest, which he carried upstairs to her bedroom. The room was a surprise. Pink satin bedspread. Pink shade on the night-lamp. Pink silk curtains fringed in white lace. Her lair was more feminine than he'd expected.

She noticed his appraisal of her boudoir, blushed a pretty pink to match the satin bedspread, and hurried him away downstairs.

Vanessa leaned against the kitchen door frame, hands on her slim hips. “You want some coffee… or something?”

“Oh, I'm all coffeed up.” He wondered what
something
was. Tea, most likely.

She smiled. Charlie Moon didn't have much imagination. But he was nice. And good-looking. And just the right size for a woman who was six one in her bare feet. She wished he'd showed up an hour later.
Given me time to get a shower. And slip on a pretty dress.
“Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“Did you come out here to see me?”

“Sure. That please you?”

“Not for a minute.” Vanessa turned aside, tossing her hair at him. “I got guys comin' out here all the time.”

He grinned. “Well, I don't blame a one of 'em.”

She pouted. “Well, you could act a little bit jealous.” She came very close. Fluttered her eyelashes at him.

My goodness.
She has big eyes. And she smells good.
Like a regular woman. He licked his lips. “That offer of coffee… or something… it still good?”

Vanessa flashed him a wicked smile. “The
coffee,”
she murmured, “is still hot.”

“Oh.”

They walked around the barn, encountering odors of alfalfa hay, dried manure, and sweaty horses. The passed the stock pond, which was still under construction. When the snows thawed, when the spring thunderstorms came booming over the San Juans, it would fill quickly enough. A light autumn snow had fallen on the previous night, barely enough to cover the dead grasses in the pasture. Moon paused to have a look at the yellow Cat 'dozer, sitting with its broad rusty blade pushed against the earthen dam. “Always wanted to drive one of these,” he said wistfully. “Since I was a boy.”

You're still a boy, Vanessa thought. Like a possessive mother, she took his hand.

They headed across the pasture, toward the large tent. Their boots crunched in the snowy grasses. He didn't have to slow down for this one. The tall young woman easily matched Moon's long strides.

Nathan McFain, who leaned against the central tent pole, noted the appearance of his daughter and the policeman with a nod.

The excavation tent was a scene of intense activity. Jimson Beugmann—who had been recruited to fill in for the absent Horace Flye—was pushing a wheelbarrow of sifted dirt toward one of the several side trenches that had been partially refilled.

Cordell York was sorting through a stack of black-and-white photographs.

Moses Silver scurried about, giving an order here, a suggestion there. Fussing like an old hen.

His daughter was on her knees, deep within the major trench, on the opposite side of the partially exposed mammoth skull from Robert Newton. They were, under the watchful eye of Nathan McFain, excavating the lower portion of the upswept tusk. “It would be best to remove the tusk,” Newton said to the rancher. “Sticking up like this—unsupported—it's likely to get damaged.”

Delia nodded her agreement. All it'd take was someone losing their balance and falling against it; the thing would snap like a dry pretzel.

“I want it right where it is,” Nathan snapped. “You can put somethin' in to brace it.” The paying tourists would appreciate a sweeping mammoth tusk that beckoned like a whore's enticing finger. These eggheads didn't have no sense of style.

Robert Newton sighed helplessly. “It's your show.”
Show
being the operative term.

Nathan gave his willowy daughter a hard look. Vanessa was leaning lightly on Moon's arm. “I thought you was busy unpackin' your van.”

Vanessa winked at the tall policeman. “It didn't take long to get everything done. Charlie carried the cedar chest up to my bedroom. He's
so
sweet.”

Nathan cocked a watery eye at Moon. This big Ute cop sure seemed to be hanging around a lot. Maybe he was taking an interest in Vannie. Well, she could do worse. And it wasn't like she was all that young anymore. She was goin' on twenty-four.

The others in the excavation tent had gradually become aware of the Ute policeman's presence.

Jimson Beugmann dumped his wheelbarrow load into a side trench. The thin young man began to smooth the rubble with a square-blade shovel. He glanced furtively through dirty blond locks at the policeman. Cops were never good news. And he had a bad feeling about this one.

Moses Silver paused in his pacings. “Officer Moon, welcome to our workplace.”

Moon accepted the outstretched hand.

Cordell York looked up from his photographs, then returned his attention to his work.

Robert Newton, busy in the pit, blinked up at the tall form. Stiff from his labors, he crawled out of the excavation. The elderly man got to his feet with a chorus of grunts and groans.

Delia Silver also climbed out of the trench; she brushed the dust off her jeans. “Hello,” she said.

Moon removed his hat and nodded at the pretty archaeologist. “Good morning.”

Delia looked uncertainly from Vanessa's face to Moon's. They made a nice-looking couple, she thought.

Moses' brow furrowed above his round spectacles. “I say, Officer Moon—have you had any word about our missing employee? Mr. Flye, I mean.”

The Ute policeman had expected the question; he shook his head. “He hasn't turned up so far.”

The absentminded paleontologist had forgotten to shave; he rubbed at a day-old gray stubble on his chin. “Odd. Can't imagine Flye leaving his child behind. Hope he hasn't met with… some misfortune.”

Moon hesitated. He swept his glance over the upturned faces. Even Cordell York was waiting for his response. “Nothing's been heard of him since one of my men found his pickup over at Capote Lake.”

Delia paled. “You don't suppose he's …”

“Well,” Moon picked his words with care, “I can tell you… last week or so, I've been looking for a
body.”

Delia closed her eyes. “Oh, God.”

Moon set his face like a stone mask.

Cordell York found all this most interesting. “How, exactly, does one go about finding a corpse, Officer Moon? I mean,” he made a sweeping gesture, “there is a great deal of wilderness out there.”

Moon fixed the man with a searching gaze. “It's not as hard as you might think.” Which was not exactly true.

York grinned. “Really? How so?”

“Dogs,” the Ute policeman said simply.

“Dogs?” Nathan McFain echoed.

Moon nodded.

The rancher frowned. “What kinda dogs?”

“'Specially trained ones. They sniff out dead bodies. We've been searching over at Capote Lake.”

“And …” Moses Silver prompted him.

“Haven't found any sign of Mr. Flye.”

“It would seem,” York observed, “that would eliminate your only promising area to search.”

Moon maintained the poker face. “Yeah. I can see how you might think that.”

York seemed genuinely puzzled. “But if Mr. Flye abandoned his vehicle at the lake and then came to some harm—and his body is not in that vicinity—where would you possibly expect to find his remains? It appears that you are faced with a quite intractable problem.”

The Ute spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe Horace Flye didn't leave his pickup at the lake.”

The academic frowned thoughtfully, as if this was a simple problem in elementary logic—and this Ute was a dull student who must be led by the hand. “But surely, that's where you found the abandoned vehicle. If Mr. Flye did not leave his truck at Lake Capote, how else could it possibly have …” York's voice trailed off. He took a deep breath. “Oh yes. I do believe I see what you're getting at.” Well now… he had underestimated this rural policeman. “But if not near the lake, then where would you expect to find …?”

Moon decided he'd said enough. He murmured a good-bye to Vanessa who looked at him with startled doe-eyes. He turned on his heel and left the tent.

Those left behind exchanged wary glances. What did this all mean …?

The Ute policeman walked briskly across the frozen pasture.

Feeling seven pairs of eyes tickling the back of his neck.

Or maybe eight …

The land passed down through three generations of McFains to Nathan was bathed in mottled moonlight. Cloud-shadows moved above the earth like a herd of great, lumbering beasts.

It was a surrealistic picture painted by a gifted madman. The long ranch house under outstretched arms of gaunt cottonwoods. The slightly leaning barn with its steeply pitched roof, a gloomy study in gray. Behind the barn, the gaping wound in the earth that would soon be transformed into a
pretty pond where sleek horses would take long drinks. The pasture touched with snow, a thin white shroud spread over the dead grasses. At the end of the sloping field—and under the bluff—the dark sprawl of the tent over a beast's grave that had been opened by curious humanoids. To look upon the stony bones of ages known only by the crumbling residue death had left behind. On the bluff immediately above the dark tent stood another dark form.

A man.

He wore a long dark coat and broad-brimmed black hat. The night breeze played with the skirt of the coat and chilled the man's face. Like a lone watchman in his tower, this silent sentry stood at his post. And waited. On this side of the fence, he had jurisdiction. Charlie Moon had his feet planted on Ute land.

He had been waiting for too many hours to count on one hand. At dusk Moon had watched the last souls—Moses Silver and Robert Newton—depart from the tent below and make their slow way across the pasture. He had heard echoes of their thin voices, the crisp crunching of their shoes in the snow-encrusted grasses. One by one, he had watched the lights go out in the cabins—and in the windows of Nathan McFain's home. The last light to dim was upstairs in the ranch house. Behind pink curtains in Vanessa's room. So she was in bed now, her long legs stretched out between the satin sheets. She was warm, he supposed.

He was not.

This realization made him feel utterly alone… and gave the cold breeze teeth of ice.

But he stood there. Until long after all below were asleep. All but one, perhaps.

Sometime after midnight, he heard the slow, rhythmic beat of an owl's wings. The Ute soul that lived deep in his marrow whispered that this was an evil thing. A bad omen. But he knew that it was nothing more than a hungry night creature searching for food.

An hour later, a half-starved coyote trotted across the frozen pasture. Sniffing here and there for the stray mouse.

Later still, three mule deer vaulted Nathan's barbed-wire
fence. They pawed at the thin crust of snow, grazed in his pasture, then disappeared into the night.

The bone-pale moon settled on the long ridge behind him. Then sank into some distant sea. Now there was only starlight. Finally, clouds like thick blankets of frozen wool were pulled over the sleeping earth.

The Voices began to whisper inside his head.

“This is a fool's errand.”

“No it's not,” he replied silently.

“No one will come.”

“Yes they will.”

“You should be in bed.”

Moon had no sensible answer to this bit of practical wisdom, so he held his tongue.

During the next five minutes, another hour passed.

A mile to the south, the cold, weary policeman saw the yellow glow of headlights. And heard the soft purr of Officer Daniel Bignight's Chevrolet. Good. Daniel was on time; and the amiable fellow was always good company. The Taos Pueblo man would be doubly welcome tonight.

Moon squatted by his companion. He rubbed his numb hands together and sniffed expectantly. “So what've you got in the paper bag?”

Daniel Bignight, who had paid a visit to the all-night gas station/convenience store in Bayfield, sat on the rolled-up blanket and spread the feast before them. “A roasted chicken. Had 'em triple-bag it, so it should still be warm.”

Moon nodded his appreciation. “What else?”

“German potato salad. And two cups of hot coffee. He-man size.”

“You bring any dessert?”

Bignight was mildly offended by such a question. “Sure. I got us some little chocolate cakes. The kind with cream filling.”

“How many?”

“Half dozen.”

Moon blew warm breath into his hands. “Sounds like enough for a midnight snack.”

As they ate, Bignight eyed the dark form beside him. “Charlie?”

“Yeah?”

“Could I ask a question—about what we're doin' out here in the dark?”