The Night Visitor (40 page)

York was chuckling, the expensive pipe rattling between his teeth. “For Pete's sake, Bob, shit or get off the pot!”

Newton paused, and blinked at the arrogant man. “Sir, if you wish to know my conclusions, you will hear me out. One does not appreciate interruptions.” He sniffed.

This unexpected show of spirit amused the surgeon, who made a small, sarcastic bow. “Forgive me if I have offended in any way. Please continue. Toward your conclusion. No matter how long it may take.” York glanced at his wristwatch, then at a calendar tacked on the tent pole.

Robert Newton, who had somewhat lost his place in the carefully prepared monologue, paused. “Oh, piffle,” he murmured. One might as well go to the bottom line. “I conclude that …”

Three scientists leaned forward with great expectation.

“… it is not possible to come to a firm conclusion. What one needs is further supporting evidence. It is a great pity that we no longer have the flint blade.”

Delia bowed her head. She wanted to cry.

York was hugely enjoying the farce. “Well, thank you, Robert. You are a thoughtful and thorough scientist. You have not disappointed us—you have, indeed, fully met—nay, exceeded—all our expectations. I daresay this is your finest hour.”

Robert Newton was quite relieved at what he perceived to be a compliment, and nodded gravely to indicate his appreciation. “One is always happy to serve… in the cause of science.”

Though the hint of a sardonic smile played at his lips, Moses Silver was deadly silent. The paleontologist was lost in a marvelous fantasy. He would, despite his considerable age and stiffening joints, leap across the table like a gazelle. Grab the wishy-washy old bastard by the throat. Strangle him to death. He could see Newton's face turning parchment-white, his blue tongue protruding from his mouth. No protest from Delia or Doc would deter him from his sacred duty. Hordes of uniformed police could come to save Newton—but they would not pry him off. They could club him with baseball bats, he would not let go. Not even when they emptied their revolvers into his body. And when he was dead, ten strong men would not be able to unclench the death-grip in his fingers.
No. If the survivors wished to bury them separately, they would have to cut off his hands at the wrists. Or—and this thought pleased him—they could cut off Newton's hollow head at the neck.

His morbid reverie was interrupted by a rude, raspy voice.

“Hey. You got company.”

All heads turned. It was the old Indian woman. Daisy Something-or-other. With a little girl hanging on each hand. Delia went to greet the elderly woman. “It's so nice to see you.”

Daisy did not respond.

“What brings you to this neck of the woods?” York asked.

“Well,” the Ute woman said earnestly, “it's Thanksgiving Day.”

“Indeed it is,” the physician said.

“On Thanksgiving Day, Indians and whites get together. And eat venison. Com on the cob. Lime Jell-O with grapes in it. First time, the Indians brought the grub. This time, I figured maybe you folks would whip something up.”

They stared at the solemn-looking Ute woman for a long, painful moment. She was very old. Must be demented.

It was Cordell York who broke the silence. “I'm afraid all we can offer is tinned beef. And perhaps some tomatoes.”

He pronounced the word to-mah-toes, and this annoyed Daisy Perika. She considered such variation from “normal” English to be an unseemly affectation. “I was hoping for turkey,” she said. “And cranberry sauce.”

The scientists decided that this must be some sort of jest.

“Heh heh,” Moses said. His face was turning a dull red.

“Ha,” Robert Newton added politely. “One is thoroughly amused.”

Delia seemed embarrassed.

Daisy sighed. Boy, this was a typical bunch of educated white people. Slow as third-class mail.

Delia kneeled to speak to the children. “Do you want to see the bones we've uncovered since you were here last?”

The children nodded in unison, then headed toward the edge of the pit.

Daisy Perika shook her head wearily. “Butter's been pestering
me for the last three days to bring her back here. Don't know what she sees in this place; it gives me the creepy-crawlies.” The Ute elder glanced at the excavation. Looked like they'd patched up the big tusk Nathan broke off when he fell.

Delia watched the girls, who were standing a yard away from the edge of the excavation. Staring at the fossil bones. Whispering to one another. Pointing. “The children don't need a tour guide today.”

All three men pretended to be quite pleased by the Ute woman's visit. Robert Newton was most solicitous. “Is Mr. Flye's little girl getting along well?”

Daisy shrugged. “I guess so. But it's been hard on Butter, what with her father takin' off an' leaving her all alone.”

The scientists exchanged uneasy glances. All were aware that the big Ute policeman was this old woman's nephew. It was Moses Silver who asked the question on all their minds. “I don't suppose there has been any report of Mr. Flye's… whereabouts.”

Daisy smiled. People always thought Charlie Moon told her everything. Wouldn't do to disappoint them. “My nephew's looking everywhere. I expect he'll turn 'im up sooner or later.”

Engrossed in their thoughts, they did not notice that the children had lost interest in the excavation pit.

“I wonder,” Cordell York mused, “where on earth he could be.”

Butter Flye's small voice shattered the silence. “He's here.”

The startled adults stared at the small child.

Delia, pale as freshly fallen snow, stared past the little girl. “What did you say?”

Butter let out a long sigh. “I said he's
here.”

Moses gave the child an odd look. “Here? Where?”

“Under the ground.”

It was Robert Newton who took charge of the situation, and this bold initiative surprised his colleagues. “Excuse me, little miss. Would you like to tell me just what you mean?”

Butter led the old man to the edge of the excavation pit. And pointed to the animal's pelvis. “He's right under there.”

He kneeled by the child. “Ah… and how do you come to know this?”

She looked at him with an expression of exasperation. “Because he told me.”

Newton nodded. “Oh, well then… if he
told
you.”

The Ute woman felt panic rising in her gut. Next thing you knew the mouthy child would tell them how she'd wandered away that night. How she'd been found in the tent, little better than dead. Charlie Moon would be sure to hear about it. And he'd come and take the children away from her. No, this thing had gone far enough. Daisy grabbed the little girl by the hand. “I think we'd better be going.”

The scientists watched the old woman lead the children through the tent door. And then they were gone.

“Poor child,” Newton said.

They exchanged wary looks.

Moses noticed that Delia was extremely pale; her hands were trembling. He remembered his daughter's breakdown after the miscarriage. “Dear… are you all right?”

She nodded. “That little girl—she seems so certain …”

“That's absurd,” Moses said gruffly. “Horace Flye's ghost has
not
come back to tell his daughter where he is buried.”

“Perhaps the child dreamed it,” she mumbled. Dreams do tell the oddest tales …

“It is a fact that Mr. Flye is missing,” York pointed out. “The Indian policeman suspects he has met with foul play—and that his body is hidden somewhere on the McFain property.”

“It is impossible,” Moses said flatly, “that Mr. Flye's body could be buried beneath the mammoth's pelvis.”

York was frowning, like a student dealing with a difficult math problem. “Unlikely, perhaps. But certainly not impossible. The soil under the fossil bones, though undisturbed for millennia, is primarily sand. Not that difficult to remove and replace. Someone could have interred the body at night. Packed in the loose soil over it, added a little water to make it set. It would have been dried out by morning, looking quite natural.”

“But it doesn't make any sense,” Moses said. “Why hide a body where people are digging?”

York tapped his pipe against a tent pole, emptying a thimble-measure of gray ash. “It is my understanding that Mr. McFain planned to construct a museum on this site. Therefore, while it was necessary to expose the fossil bones for public view, it was essential that they remain in place. It would have been quite contrary to the property owner's express instructions to excavate
under
the pelvis. For that reason, it would be an excellent place to hide a corpse. A very secure location indeed.” He scanned his audience. “Tell me… can any of you find fault with my logic?”

Moses opened his mouth to answer, but could think of nothing to say.

Again, it was Robert Newton who took the initiative. “Well, if one may offer an observation… there is only one thing to be done.”

They all knew what he meant.

York nodded his agreement. “Your have hit the nail on the head, Bob. The child will certainly repeat her ghost story to other ears. And that big Indian cop is a friend of the family. We'll have to face up to it sooner or later—best take the initiative.”

“When we don't find Flye's body,” Moses said wearily, “we're all going to feel pretty silly about this little misadventure.”

“Indeed,” York replied. “But what if we should find it?”

Delia stared wildly at the physician. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we've been concentrating on the issue of
whether
Flye's body is buried in the excavation. If we should find his remains, the more interesting question would be—who put him there?”

“Who do you think?” she asked.

He flashed her a charming smile. “Someone who's very clever, I'd say.”

Daniel Bignight knocked lightly on Charlie Moon's office door, which was half-open.

The Ute policeman looked up from a clutter of papers, grateful for a respite from tedious work on the duty roster. “Come in, Daniel.”

The Taos Pueblo man dropped an envelope on Moon's desk. “We're taking up a collection. It's for Officer Chavez. Tomorrow's her one-year anniversary with SUPD. Thought we'd get her some flowers. Maybe take her to lunch.”

Moon pulled a fiver out of his wallet and put it in the envelope. “Good idea.” He gave the officer a thoughtful look. Daniel Bignight had been in a glum mood since that night on the bluff overlooking Nathan McFain's pasture. Most likely, he was still upset over the “banshee” incident. Well, it had been pretty funny. But anyone can get spooked. Especially when it's dark and the wind moans. And every shadow has teeth and claws. And you've already been thinking about ghostly things. Moon reminded himself that he'd been the one who'd planted the banshee suggestion. He'd done it to keep Bignight awake. And maybe for just a little bit of fun. But now the junior officer was embarrassed about how he'd reacted to some imaginary spook. It'd gotten to be a morale problem. Putting Bignight's mind at ease would require just a touch of finesse.

“Daniel,” he said slowly, “maybe you can help me with something.”

“What's that?”

“It's about that night when Nathan McFain died.”

A mask slipped over the Pueblo man's face.

This wasn't going to be easy. “I should've stayed awake. Been more help to you than I was.” Moon drummed his fingers on the desk and assumed a thoughtful, worried expression. “Some peculiar things happened there that night. Nathan's death looks like an accident. But it could be somebody chased him into that tent. Then shoved him onto the mammoth tusk. So if you could try to remember exactly what happened… Anything you saw or heard might be important.”

Bignight looked over Moon's head at the wall. “You wouldn't of wanted to hear what I heard, Charlie. Not if you lived to be a hunnerd and ten.”

“Tell me about it.”

Bignight looked the big Ute square in the eye. “Old Nathan McFain's dyin' wasn't no accident. It was that bant-shee that killed 'im.”

Moon tried to keep a straight face. Wasn't easy. “Why do you think that, Daniel?”

“If I live to be a hunnerd and ten, I'll never forget it. That damn bant-shee… it called for
me
, Charlie.”

“What exactly did it—”

Bignight, who was barely listening, continued to mutter. “Thought I was a goner for sure.” He turned away from Moon. Stared out the window, into the cold gray twilight. “Some nights, I think maybe it'll come back for me.”

“I need to get this straight. The… uh… banshee—it called your name?”

The roundheaded man nodded. “Sure. Just like you'd said, Charlie.”

Moon—surprised at how suggestive this Pueblo man was—swallowed a smile. Best to keep talking, let him get it out of his system. “You mean your first name…
Daniel?”

The Taos Pueblo man looked gloomily at the floor; he rubbed the toe of his scuffed boot over a knothole in a pine plank. “It was even worse'n that. It was like that bant-shee knew ever'thing about me. It called me just like my grand-momma used to holler for me when I was a little kid.”

“And how was that?”

Daniel Bignight ducked his head shyly; he spoke barely above a whisper. “She called me… Danny.”

Moon nodded thoughtfully, as if this was important information. “When the… uh… banshee called for you… what did it sound like?”

Daniel Bignight closed the door behind him. “It was a long scream… kinda like this.” He took a deep breath. “Daannneeee… Daannneeee …” He looked hopefully at Moon. “Does that help any, Charlie?”

“It might.” Poor, superstitious fellow.