The Night Visitor (47 page)

When Butter Flye had shown him her box of “pretties” the Ute policeman had not understood the significance of the few chips of flint among the bits of colored glass. The possibility that Horace Flye had pulled a fast one had not occurred to him until that long, sleepless night when he sat staring dumbly at the cover of
Time
—and realized that the color of the blade was quite similar to the chips of flint Flye's child had given him. So Moon had carefully moved each sample over the color photograph of the flint implement on the magazine cover. Attempting to determine whether one of the chips had come from the “ancient” artifact. And finally, one had matched. So if his daughter had some of the leavings from the manufacture of the blade, Horace Flye must've made the thing—and planted it under the mammoth's jawbone. But why—for a prank?

Someone, it seemed, had not been amused.

There had been no proof that the Arkansas man was dead. Maybe he had ran off and left his daughter. But Moon had had his doubts.

So the Ute policeman had gathered a sample of Horace Rye's unwashed clothing from the little trailer. And called up the woman with the body-sniffing dog. But the animal hadn't found the least scent of Flye at Capote Lake. So Moon had sent her to the McFain ranch. She'd rented a cabin and taken her remarkable little pooch for a long, meandering walk. The dog had accomplished his grim purpose within the first hour; the woman had called Moon at home to tell him precisely where to find Flye's body. He could have turned the information over to the sheriff's office. And if the county cops were extremely fortunate, they might have found enough physical evidence to identify the murderer. But it didn't usually turn out that way.

So Moon had gone fishing.

He'd let the people on the ranch believe that someone might just show up
later
with a body-sniffing pooch. Then he had camped out on the bluff overlooking the pasture and
waited to see who would come out after dark to move the body. After several hours of watching on that first night—after it seemed that his ruse had failed—he had turned the vigil over to Daniel Bignight. Moon had been asleep when Nathan McFain came outside. Unexpected clouds had made the night dark as pitch. If something hadn't startled the old rancher, Bignight might never have noticed what was going on. And Nathan would have hauled Flye's unearthed body away, practically under their noses. But something had frightened the rancher. Probably, Moon thought, it was a guilty conscience. And the cold fear of being discovered.

On the way to Nathan's funeral, he had prodded Delia Silver with suggestions about the authenticity of the artifact Cordell York found under the mammoth's jawbone. Delia—who had shared her terrible secret with no one—had been almost grateful to talk to the lawman. The archaeologist was suspicious from the first moment she'd inspected the thing under a magnifying lens. The first hint was a subtle feature. When a flint blade is manufactured, most flakes break off completely. A few come only partway off, leaving behind a thin sliver that's much like a loose shingle on a roof. When the flint artifact lies around in the dirt for a few hundred years, groundwater gradually seeps in these little fractures. And takes in tiny grains of soil with it. But in the case of the “thirty-thousand-year-old” flint blade, there hadn't been any dirt at all under the fractures. The thing looked quite new.

But such evidence was merely suggestive… not conclusive.

So the archaeologist had inspected the flint implement more closely. And found tiny, silvery traces where chips had been forced off the edge of the blade. Traces, she realized, of metal. Steel, probably. Someone had used a modern tool to manufacture this “artifact.” And planted it in the mammoth's grave.

Her father—who would benefit most from this “proof” that he'd found an incredibly old human kill site—would be the prime suspect behind this fraud. So Delia had found herself in a very tough spot when Cordell York had suggested that an “independent” expert should examine the flint blade. This was not unreasonable—independent verification of important
scientific data was a common practice. But Delia was desperate to avoid such an examination. The first expert who examined the “relic” would spot it as a three-dollar bill in thirty seconds flat. Her father's reputation would be forever tarnished.

There seemed to be only one solution. The “artifact” had to disappear forever. So Delia had immediately volunteered to personally deliver it to the independent expert. On the way, she would manage to destroy the offensive piece of stone—grind it to dust if necessary. If Nathan McFain hadn't grabbed the fake, she would have disposed of the damning evidence that suggested either she or her father—or perhaps both of them—were the worst sort of frauds.

Her father, of course, would never have considered such an unethical scheme.

But who had made the thing and planted it—and why? She had immediately suspected Nathan McFain. The entrepreneur's plans for a museum would have been considerably enhanced by the discovery of such a remarkable artifact. And Nathan had managed to snatch it away as soon as mention was made of a careful examination by outside experts. Maybe he had panicked.

But somehow, Nathan McFain quite didn't fit the profile. For one thing, he wasn't all that stupid. And not the sort of man to take such a ridiculous risk. But who would be stupid enough to plant such an obvious phony? Who would be such an idiot …

Of course.

Delia had invited Horace Flye to her cabin. He'd shown up very late that night. She made him a cup of tea. And, almost casually, asked him what he knew about the flint blade. The Arkansas man—who was rather proud of himself—readily admitted he'd made the thing with long-nosed pliers. And planted it among the fossil bones.

Why?

Why, to help her and her father, of course. After several hours of trial-and-error flint-knapping, Flye had manufactured the evidence the Silvers needed to “prove” that this huge beast had been killed by humans. And he'd planted it under
the fossil jawbone. As a favor, because he liked the both of them. Her especially.

She appreciated his good intentions, but where did he get such a ludicrous notion?

Horace—who was not a man to hog all the credit for himself—admitted that Delia and her father were largely responsible for his idea.

What on earth did he mean?

He had explained. She'd manufactured a projectile point, her daddy had planted it for their suspect employee to find in the excavation. And she'd told Flye all about their plan to test his honesty. Yep, he observed, her old man was a smart cookie. And, he added, she was slick as boiled okra. Knowing that women appreciate such compliments.

Patiently, Delia explained the awful fix he'd put them in. As soon as Nathan McFain turned the fake loose long enough for an expert on lithic artifacts to examine it, the game was up. Her father's reputation and career would be ruined. Not to mention her own. Unless she could get her hands on the phony blade and destroy it.

Horace Flye—who had no idea how easy it was to spot such an amateurish fake—was mortified by what he'd done. After promising to “make things right,” he wandered off into the night. Delia had no idea of what he had in mind. But when he didn't show up for work the next morning, it appeared that the silly man—shamed by his actions—had simply fled. She wasn't surprised. Not until she learned that he'd left his trailer-home behind—and a six-year-old daughter. Then the young archaeologist began to worry. But Delia didn't know that Horace Flye had attempted to steal the artifact from Nathan McFain's home. Nathan hadn't reported the “theft” until several days after Flye's disappearance. When it was convenient not to have possession of a valuable artifact that would be claimed by the Southern Ute tribe if the court-ordered land survey went against him.

After the funeral, Vanessa McFain had told Moon about being awakened late at night by the sound of a loud argument downstairs. Men's voices. Her father was yelling at someone—Horace Flye, she now supposed—calling him a damned
thief. The other man was yelling back, protesting that he couldn't rightly be called a thief—how could a man steal what was his in the first place? By the time she got out of bed and went to see what it was all about, the parlor was empty. She looked outside and saw no one. But arguments between her father and his ranch hands, even loud ones, were not uncommon. So she went back to bed, and slept in that morning. Her father had shown up for breakfast, looking exhausted. She'd asked him about the ruckus the night before. He'd shrugged it off as nothing important. When they learned that Flye had left without his daughter, her father had a ready explanation for such behavior. That lying hillbilly from Arkansas was a no-good bastard who didn't even take care of his own child. And Nathan was glad to be rid of him. It was no great loss; Jimson Beugmann would do the chores for those eggheads who were digging up the mammoth bones.

Vanessa claimed that she hadn't mentioned her father's late-night argument with Flye again because it didn't seem all that important. She'd had no idea the police suspected foul play until Moon dropped the hint about body-sniffing dogs. But Vanessa had remembered something that was important. One afternoon when she was upstairs, the telephone had rung a half dozen times. Thinking her father was at the barn, Vanessa had picked up the phone in her bedroom. And heard the beginning of a tense conversation between her father and someone with a familiar voice. It was a conversation about business. She had intended to place the phone back on the hook when she heard the antiquarian say he “had a hot prospect.” And so she listened.

This valuable piece of information had led Moon and Scott Parris to Ralph Briggs. The Ute policeman and Parris had laid their cards on the table for the antiquarian. The flint blade was a fake. If this fact came to light, the Silvers' reputations could be ruined. And, worst of all from Briggs' perspective, the thing wouldn't be worth a nickel to anyone.

There was, of course, the matter of ownership. The “artifact” had never belonged to Nathan McFain. No, like Moon had told Anne Foster, the flint blade belonged to the man who'd
made
it. Not some stone-age mammoth hunter. Just a
foolish man from Arkansas who was trying to do a favor for Delia Silver and her father. And, of course, have a little fun to boot.

So where did that leave Briggs? The antiquarian had a well-heeled client who was eager to buy the worthless chunk of rock. A wealthy Arab who'd
made a
habit of smuggling national treasures out of a dozen nations.

Moon—with backup from Scott Parris—had explained the facts of life to Ralph Briggs: with Horace Flye missing, whatever the Arab was willing to pay—minus Briggs' fee—rightly belonged to Horace's little daughter.

Briggs, a romantic at heart, had been eager to play the game.

That part had worked out pretty well. Butter Flye was now better fixed financially than anyone who worked for the Southern Ute Police Department.

But Moon wondered. If Horace Flye hadn't had any heirs—what would he and Scott Parris have done with an opportunity to snag all that cash? He thought about competing options. But there was no real contest. With his share, he'd have bought a small Hereford ranch up on the Gunnison. And retired from police work. The thought of this missed opportunity threatened to put him in a melancholy mood.

He cut the ignition and got out of the SUPD Blazer.

Vanessa McFain was pleased to hear the heavy knock on her door, to see Charlie Moon's face. Aunt Celeste had not yet ended her visit; the elderly relative took quite an interest in Vanessa's caller.

Vanessa brought Moon's breakfast on a lacquered tray.

The women exchanged anxious glances.

He stared woodenly at a large bowl of oatmeal; shriveled raisins floated on the gray gruel like unsuspecting flies who'd died of food poisoning. There was unbuttered whole-wheat toast on a china saucer. A green-tipped banana. Maybe this was a tasteless joke.

Vanessa seemed hurt by his lack of enthusiasm. “Charlie, I know how you like fried meat. And fried eggs. And fried potatoes. And butter. But all that cholesterol will kill you.”

“Red meat,” Aunt Celeste added darkly, “is the enemy of good health.”

Vanessa nodded her agreement with this sage observation. “But this,” she made a hopeful gesture toward the oatmeal, “is wholesome, nourishing food. Lots of fiber.
Good
for you.”

Moon had one word for this stuff.
Goop.
He frowned at two dozen raisin eyes. They stared boldly back. “Uh… well, I sorta already had some breakfast at home this morning.”

Sorta?
Aunt Celeste gave this unrepentant carnivore an accusing glare.

But it wasn't a bald-faced lie. He had, in fact, found three stale glazed donuts in a brown paper bag by the coffee can. The cupboard needing a good cleaning-out, so he ate them. He'd been saving himself for one of Vanessa's special he-man breakfasts to jump-start his day. Moon had hoped for crispy chicken-fried steak. Scrambled eggs soaked in real butter. Big heap of home fries. Gobs of ketchup. Biscuits made from scratch. Orange marmalade. Black coffee strong enough to give the spoon a rash. Or almost anything a sensible young woman might put on the table.

But not
oatmeal.

Vanessa looked dolefully at the unwanted breakfast. And sighed pitifully.

Didn't move him.

Moon—who was made of good stuff—held his ground. He patted his belt buckle. “Too bad I'm already full up.”

Now Vanessa's eyes looked like they were about to cry.

Oh boy. Moon peeled the half-ripe banana. Ate it with gusto while the women watched. This sacrifice should be enough to satisfy them.

It was not.

Aunt Celeste stared at the oatmeal bowl.

Vanessa gave him an imploring look.

Well, to keep the peace, a fellow must sometimes do downright repellent things. He picked up the spoon. Hesitated. Then manfully attacked the enemy. It seemed a bottomless bowl. He finally swallowed the last spoonful. Felt a mild surge of nausea.
Got to get this taste outta my mouth.
“Well,
that coffee'll sure hit the spot.” He reached for a steaming cup.