Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries (34 page)
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Authors: Kathleen O'Neal Gear,W. Michael Gear
BOOK: Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries
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CATKIN, CLAY FROG, Red Dog, and Browser crouched in the shadows of Scorpion Town. Browser kept running his hands up and down the shaft of his war club. Catkin had seen him like this before. When battle was close, he couldn’t seem to stay still.
She glanced up at the block of rooms two bow shots above them. Owl House was poorly lit by the fingernail moon. Did Springbank lie up there? She could imagine him, age-wasted, pale, his lungs mottled black with old blood. His skin would be tight, eyes sunken into his skull. Those withered brown lips would be drawn back
to expose his peglike incisors. Did the old witch really believe that by taking Obsidian’s heart he would be able to prolong his foul life?
to expose his peglike incisors. Did the old witch really believe that by taking Obsidian’s heart he would be able to prolong his foul life?
Catkin hefted her war club. “How do you wish to do this?”
“The main party of White Moccasins are camped at High Sun, one half-hand’s run from here, but there will be guards above us somewhere. We can assume that they haven’t seen us yet. Had they, an alarm would have been raised.”
“A half-hand isn’t much time,” Clay Frog reminded. “It is even less when you are involved in a fight for your life. That main party could be here before we know it.”
Browser gripped his club tightly. “Let’s split into two parties and work up the slope from different directions.”
“Or come back tomorrow night with more people,” Catkin suggested. Her belly knotted. Something told her they should not do this tonight. “By the time Sister Moon rises tomorrow, we could have the job done.”
“And it’s possible we’d have cloud cover, like we did at sunset tonight,” Clay Frog added, sensing Catkin’s hesitance.
Browser’s eyes slitted as he studied the ridgetop structure above them. She could feel his need to storm up there, to rush the place, and end it once and for all.
“Tonight,” Browser said. “It must be tonight.”
Catkin took a deep breath. “All right. Perhaps we should take the rest of the night to slowly get into position, then spring on them as dawn approaches. Men are the most tired then.”
Browser did not even look at her. His eyes remained on the dark ruins of Owl House. “Clay Frog, take Red Dog and circle, stick to the shadows next to the cliff and move from boulder to boulder, it will give you a little more protection. Catkin and I will work our way
to the toe of the ridge. From there we will crawl from bush to bush as we make our way up.”
to the toe of the ridge. From there we will crawl from bush to bush as we make our way up.”
“Yes, War Chief.”
But no one moved. Red Dog and Clay Frog exchanged worried glances.
“Let’s do this,” Catkin said and rose to her feet.
Clay Frog and Red Dog cautiously marched off to the right; then Browser started up the hill. They had made less than four paces when a cry carried on the still night.
From long practice, Catkin dropped to a crouch, her eyes searching the darkness. Where he walked ahead of her, Browser was already down, frozen in place in the trail. Clay Frog and Red Dog had followed their lead, their figures hunched ten paces away.
“Who was that?” Browser’s voice was barely above a whisper. “One of ours?”
Catkin swallowed hard, whispering, “I thought for a moment we were discovered, but I think it came from over by the staircase.”
“Agreed,” Clay Frog hissed. “That was not a warning cry.”
“Follow me,” Browser ordered. “No matter who it was, they are alert up there now. We won’t be able to get to them.”
In a low bobbing line they duck-walked back to the protective shadows of the village walls. No sooner had Catkin reached the shadows than a piping whistle, the sound like a night bird’s, carried on the still air. Moments later, another responded from the ridge where Owl House looked ever more impregnable.
“Gods,” Browser whispered. “Something has alerted them. Let us hope it is not our other scouting party.” He hesitated and shook his head. “Back. Let’s go back.”
Catkin prayed that Jackrabbit, Straighthorn, Carved Splinter, and Fire Lark were being equally smart.
As they turned to go, Catkin cast one last glance over
her shoulder, and there, faintly visible atop the roof at Owl House, she could see a person staring off toward the staircase to the south. A glittering haze of windblown hair swam around the person. Was it a trick of the distance, or was it a woman?
her shoulder, and there, faintly visible atop the roof at Owl House, she could see a person staring off toward the staircase to the south. A glittering haze of windblown hair swam around the person. Was it a trick of the distance, or was it a woman?
MAUREEN SAW THE man as she drove the Bronco into Dusty’s driveway. Sunset cast slanting shadows through the winter-bare cottonwoods and across his tall, thin body. He leaned against a white Chevrolet with his arms crossed nonchalantly. The car sported New Mexico plates, traces of road grime around the wheel wells, and a scattering of small dents. He watched her drive in. In his sixties, he looked lean to the point of being bony. Despite a receding hairline, he wore his white hair long, pulled back in a ponytail. That coupled with the tweed coat, brown Dockers, and snazzy black turtleneck gave him an upscale cachet. She would have immediately placed him as trendy Santa Fe, even without the big silver belt buckle with the large chunk of turquoise.
When she looked into his cold blue eyes, Maureen knew him. She’d seen him at Dale’s memorial ceremony, and again on the photo Agent Nichols had showed her:
Carter Hawsworth
.
Carter Hawsworth
.
Maureen cut the ignition, gathered her purse, and slipped a hand inside to push the 911 buttons on her cellular phone. If necessary, all she’d have to do was thumb the SEND button and scream out “Upper Canyon Road.”
She kept one hand inside her buffalo purse, a finger on the button, as she stepped out of the Bronco and slammed the door. “Hello. May I help you?”
The man straightened, the move oddly graceful. “I
was looking for William Stewart. I understood that this was his address.” He pointed to the pathetic aluminum trailer hunkering on the creek bank.
was looking for William Stewart. I understood that this was his address.” He pointed to the pathetic aluminum trailer hunkering on the creek bank.
“Thought you’d try it in the daylight this time, Dr. Hawsworth?”
He gave her a speculative look. “Do I know you?”
“No. I’m Dr. Maureen Cole.”
He considered her, lips pursed. “I don’t remember having heard of you. You are a colleague of Dale’s?”
“I was. Though recently I’ve been working with the FBI. In fact, I was just discussing you with FBI Special Agent Sam Nichols. He’s very interested in talking to you.”
To her surprise, Hawsworth sighed and chuckled. “Yes, I know. My sister has been leaving that message on my answering machine. I rather suppose that I should give the agent a call.”
“Why did you leave Dale’s memorial without introducing yourself?”
He stared down at the ground. “It was one of those things I just had to do. You see, in the beginning, I thought it was Dale.”
“What was?”
He stepped away from his car. “About a month ago I started receiving messages. The first was a sand painting. An image of me that had been done in the middle of the night on my doorstep. A yucca leaf, like a spear, was thrust through the image’s chest.”
“You thought Dale had done that?”
“No. But some of the other things … well, suffice it to say that Dale was among the few people on earth who would have known the significance a yucca hoop has for me.”
He looked suddenly frightened. Maureen took her hand off the cell phone and reached for the key to Dusty’s trailer. “I don’t suppose you still have this yucca hoop?”
Evidence. Everything always came down to evidence.
“Bloody hell, do you think I’d have kept such a thing? God no, I immediately burned it. The same with the messages that came in on the fax. As soon as I detected Dale’s subtle hand, I called him. Told him to stop it, that I knew it was him.”
“Is that why you went to his memorial service?”
“No, no.” Hawsworth waved it away irritably. “When I heard he’d been found in Chaco and how he’d died, I knew it was something else.”
“Something else? Not someone?”
He studied her, his pale blue eyes prying away as if to determine what she really knew. “If I told you that witchcraft is always more than ‘someone,’ would you immediately consider me a lunatic? Some New Age fruitcake? Or would you allow me the courtesy of my professional identity as an anthropologist and grant me the benefit of the doubt?”
She gave him a thin smile. “I’d give you the benefit of the doubt, Dr. Hawsworth.”
“Thank you, Dr. Cole.” He steepled his fingers as though addressing undergraduates in the lecture hall, and started pacing lithely before her. “You see, one need not believe in witchcraft itself. I mean, I don’t accept that it works as its practitioners believe, but you must understand that the followers are ardent. That they believe is sufficient. As a result, it isn’t witchcraft itself that carries power, but their belief and the extent to which they pursue their ends. Thus it is—”
Maureen interrupted, “Dr. Hawsworth, I’m more than passingly familiar with the professional literature. Get to the point.”
He seemed slightly off balance, as if by derailing his train of thought, she’d made him lose his place.
“You were telling me why you went to Dale’s memorial, and left before it was over.”
“Yes, you see, I—I,” he stammered, then seemed to
catch himself. He squared his thin shoulders. “I’m sure the witch was there.”
catch himself. He squared his thin shoulders. “I’m sure the witch was there.”
“The person who killed Dale?”
His cold blue eyes seemed to enlarge. “That’s right. I hoped I would see him. Recognize him. And then, all of a sudden, I saw you looking at me, and I realized immediately that going there was a mistake, because as easily as I might have picked out the witch, so might he have singled me out of the crowd. I had already received his unwelcome attention. I did not wish to solicit more.”
“Didn’t you keep any of the things he sent you? As evidence?”
“Of course not! Why on earth do you think I would have cared about evidence? I immediately swept the walk after I discovered the sand painting. The faxes I threw away.”
She impatiently jangled Dusty’s keys. “Who were the faxes from?”
The Wolf Witch
?
The Wolf Witch
?
He frowned. “When I received my phone bill, I checked. The faxes had all been sent from a hotel. The business office at the Hotel El Dorado, right here in Santa Fe. It seems that anyone can just walk in and have the hotel send a fax. They only make a record if it is charged to a room. The faxes sent to me were paid for in cash. The sender only signed his name as someone called Kwewur. I looked it up, found the reference in Fewkes. It’s the name of a Wolf Katchina.”
Maureen studied him thoughtfully, wondering what Ruth Ann Sullivan had ever seen in this man. “Why haven’t you told all this to the FBI?”
His lips tightened in an expression like a cartoon turtle might have made. “I’m not sure I could adequately relate the serious nature of southwestern witchcraft to American federal agents. They don’t believe in it, you see. They would be suspicious, perhaps misinterpret my motives in trying to discover the witch.”
“They don’t seem to misinterpret much, Dr. Hawsworth.”
He looked genuinely pained. “But I doubt they have the facilities to pursue a witch. It’s not in their cognitive framework. The witch could be right under their official noses, flipping them the proverbial finger, as it were, and they’d never see him.”
“Would you?”
“Absolutely. You see, Dr. Cole, I’ve been studying witchcraft for the last forty years. It brought me here, to the Southwest. Since then, I’ve followed it to Australia, Polynesia, and Africa. I have over fifty publications in professional journals. If there is a modern expert on preliterate witchcraft, I fear I am he.”
“Why did you follow Dr. Sullivan here last night?”
Hawsworth paused, his frown deepening. “I beg your pardon?”
“You followed Ruth Ann Sullivan here from her hotel at around two A.M. last night, didn’t you?”
“Who? Ruth? Last night?” He looked perplexed. “She was here?” He looked around as though the surroundings had suddenly been tainted.
“Someone followed Ruth Ann Sullivan from her hotel to this place last night. She assumed it was you.”
He made a distasteful face. “Why would I do that?”
“I haven’t the slightest notion. As I said, she assumed it was you. Her reasons for making that assumption are her own, but I would imagine that something must have warranted them.”
He folded his arms again. “The knowledge that I would love to drive a stake through her black heart is no doubt part of it. Had I known she was coming here last night, I would indeed have followed her. Did she seem frightened of me?”
Maureen nodded.
“Good!” he exclaimed with true glee, and clapped his hands together. “If you see her again, tell her I’d take great pleasure in flaying her skin from her body.”
He smiled. “But slowly, Dr. Cole. Very slowly.”
He smiled. “But slowly, Dr. Cole. Very slowly.”
“I take it you and Dr. Sullivan aren’t on the best of terms.”
“In Africa I was working in the Namibian bush. I met the most fascinating reptile there. The snake is called the black mamba,
Dendroaspis polylepis
, to be precise. It’s a beautiful thing, slim and graceful, and it moves through the grass with such sinuous grace. When encountered, it lifts its head up, and being more than ten feet long, it stares at a man at eye level. The only defense is to move your hand back and forth.” He made a motion, as if polishing glass. “The reason is that if the snake strikes, it will hit your hand instead of your face or throat. In the intervening two minutes that you have to live, you might be able to amputate your hand or arm in time to save your life.”
Dendroaspis polylepis
, to be precise. It’s a beautiful thing, slim and graceful, and it moves through the grass with such sinuous grace. When encountered, it lifts its head up, and being more than ten feet long, it stares at a man at eye level. The only defense is to move your hand back and forth.” He made a motion, as if polishing glass. “The reason is that if the snake strikes, it will hit your hand instead of your face or throat. In the intervening two minutes that you have to live, you might be able to amputate your hand or arm in time to save your life.”
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