The Bone Man (12 page)

I rubbed my hands up and down my thighs. “Well, I have a theory. I think that Didi’s re-creation was of a friend of mine. A modern woman. I don’t know how her skull ended up in an Old Ones’ pot. But that’s what I believe.”

“Yes,” the governor said. “Well, it’s a crazier theory than mine, even.”

“Which is?”

“That her head was witched in there.”

“Switched in there? How?”

He chuckled softly. “Not switched, Tally Whyte.
Witched
.”

Not what I’d been expecting. “Ah. You’re a shaman. Am I right?”

He laughed harder, put his cigarette out on the bottom of his boot, and slipped the butt into his shirt pocket. “I’m not sure what you Anglos call it, what I am.”

I almost told him about events on the Vineyard, but held my tongue. I trusted him, but I’d done that before with disastrous results. His chocolate eyes said “truth,” and his body language conveyed relaxation, not guilt. Yet for once I resisted my innards and didn’t spew forth all that I knew.

“And you want me to . . . ?” I said.

He waved his hand. “In a minute. You want something from me, yes?”

“How did you . . . Whatever.” I leaned forward. “Yes, I do. I’d like you to tell me about the blood fetish.”

His head snapped around, and his eyes blazed. “That’s deep, my dear. Deep. I can’t help you. I can’t talk about it. Or even name it.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“They’re much the same. You should talk to my son.”

“And how would I do that?”

His eyes warmed and his leathery face folded into a smile of such quiet joy I wished to reach out and hold him and feel that warmth, that love of life. I reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out my amber bear. “Please take her.”

He looked from the bear to me, and his long brown fingers slipped Dee’s bear from my palm. He pulled out a pouch from beneath his shirt—his medicine pouch—widened the mouth and placed Dee’s bear inside.

“That is a great gift.” He slid the pouch back beneath his shirt.

“She’s a sweet bear.”

“Yes. I’ve seen you and, now, your home. You are in tune with the Indian as much as any white can be. You have authority, presence.”

His flattery made me uncomfortable. I respected his slow pace, but he wasn’t being completely forthright with me.

“You won’t tell me, will you?” I said. “About the fetish.”

“It’s not part of my story. Aric, on the other hand . . .” He inhaled smoke from his cigarette, and his lungs expanded. “Good. It’s good.”

“It will kill you.”

His ironic smile gave me pause. I wondered . . . “So . . . what can I do for you?”

“I want you to come with me to recover the skull.”

I laughed, all nerves. “Come with you where?”

He nodded. “To Zuniland.”

Zuniland. I’d been there once, years earlier, and I’d loved it. I always felt at home out west. Yet . . . “I can’t, Governor. I have things here. Obligations. This should be left to the authorities.”

He stood and leaned on the balcony’s railing. His eyes narrowed, and everything about him said he desperately missed his home, his mountain—Corn Mountain—and the sun above the mesa. His place.

“Governor?” I said finally.

He straightened his spine. “The authorities, as you call them, are your authorities. Not mine. They know less than nothing. They have not seen the face of the woman. She is pleading for help.”

“The reconstruction?”
Pleading for help
. Maybe that’s what I’d been feeling for days, Delphine’s plea.

“Not that, ma’am,” he said. “Dr. Cravitz. Her face. I shall never forget. She is not resting yet. Not yet.”

He stood and drew a card and a pouch, much like his medicine pouch, from his jeans pocket. “Here is where I’m staying. I wrote my cell phone number on back. I leave tomorrow. Please call me.”

His card read
Professor Ben Bowannie
, with numerous initials after his name, and followed by
Archeology Department, University of New Mexico
.

“You are full of surprises, Professor,” I said.

He grinned. “I try to keep the young ones hopping.”

“I’ll call either way. But please don’t count on me.”

“One more thing.” He held up the pouch. “This, too. It’s for you.”

“Really?” I took the pouch from the governor. It was soft and warm, perhaps made of deerskin. I looked at him with questions. “Governor?”

“Just open it.”

I widened the neck and spilled what was in the pouch into my palm. I gasped, smiled. “The red rock from the Old Ones’ pot! I just assumed the thieves had taken that, too.”

He nodded. “The doctor told me how much you admired it.” His lips curled into a grin. “I thought you would like it.”

“I love it.” I couldn’t believe I held the red rock in my hand. The rock from Chaco. It was warm and the essence of the mystery and beauty of the Southwest. “It reminded me of a fetish. It just feels . . .
good
in my hand. You know?”

His two large hands encompassed mine and the red rock. “I do know. A small piece of Chaco. It’s mine to give.” He chuckled. “As long as those Navajo don’t find out!”

I hugged him. Inappropriate or not, I couldn’t help myself.
He laughed and hugged me back. “A great hug like that for a little red rock. Marvelous.”

The governor stood to leave.

“I wish you didn’t have to leave so soon,” I said.

“Time.”

I walked him to the door.

“One more thing,” he said. “Someone is tracking you. He slouches, like a bum, and blends in well. If, for some reason, I fail . . . it matters that you find the skull. You, Tally. I don’t mean to burden you, but truth is truth.” He walked slowly down the steps as if he’d aged ten years.

Following me. What made me so interesting? I peeked out my bedroom window. My bucolic street looked lovely, the leaves on the trees turning vermillion and orange and yellow. A few had already drifted to the ground. They and danced on the breeze.

A couple held hands, swinging them like a pendulum, smiles on their flushed faces.

I pictured them living simple and beautiful lives—work, movies, books, making love, cooking, vacations at the shore. I should picture myself doing those things. Yet I couldn’t imagine it for me. My life had never been simple, pleasant, or comfortable.

Life could be that way now. I had the money. The time. No encumbrance. Except I was itchy. Waiting for that other shoe to drop.

Outside, no one else appeared on the street. So who was following me and why? Or maybe the governor was imagining things, like witches. God, these dramas got tedious.

I let the curtain fall back across the window.

I sat on the bed and leaned forward to scratch Penny’s belly. “Belly rub, Pens!” She sprawled onto her back, per usual. “You are shameless.”

Kaboom!
Shards of pain stabbed my back and head.

“What the
hell!
” Hank said as he squeezed his large frame into my emergency room cubicle at Brigham and Women’s Hospital.

I yawned, tightened the nasty johnny they’d wrapped me in after cleaning the glass shards from my back. “I got some Demerol,” I said. “Not sure why. Hell, by the way, has nothing to do with it.” I smiled. Hank looked so darned cute when he was angry.

He wrapped his paws around my upper arms.

“Ow! You’re mean.”

He instantly freed me. “Dammit, Tally. What happened? The nurse outside won’t say shit.”

He had the cutest, bushiest mustache. It was auburn, and it tickled when he kissed me. I licked my lips and leaned forward. I puckered up.

“Tally, dammit! First your face, now this!” His hand brushed the bandage on my cheek, and I giggled.

Hank was scowling again.

“Gee,” I said. “What’s a girl gotta do to get a kiss around here?”

“You sound like a Playboy bunny, fa Christ sake!”

A white-coat poked her head in. “Sir. You’ll have to keep it down.”

He flipped open his billfold and held it up to her face.

“Rude,” I said. “Rude, rude, rude.”

The doctor squinted. “You’re a police lieutenant? Are Ms. Whyte’s injuries a police matter, Lieutenant Cunningham?”

“Ayuh,” he said. “Dammed well straight.”

“Hank,” I said. “You sound so . . .
Maine
. My window just broke.”

Fury ripped across his face. “Someone shot the fucking window out, Tally.”

Shot. Oh. “Maybe.” I leaned against him and closed my eyes. Lieutenant Cunningham. I liked that. Sounded good. A good name. But he was Sheriff Cunningham. My sheriff. My lieutenant. Lieutenant?

“You’re not a lieutenant.” I giggled and swung my legs. “Oops. Shouldn’t fib.”

“Lie down, Ms. Whyte,” the doctor said. She lifted my legs onto the gurney and pulled a blanket to my chin. “I’m a nurse, dear. Why don’t you try to rest?”

I was so tired. But . . . “Hank Cunningham! Tell her the truth. You are a s
heriff!
”

“Dear,” the nurse said.

“Don’t call me ‘dear.’ I’m not your dear.” I sat up. “And he’s a sheriff,
dear
.”

A feminine hand shoved a badge into my face. “No,
dear
, he’s a Massachusetts State Police lieutenant.”

“Tally, I . . .”

The world got all fuzzy and bright yellow, and white noise hissed in my head. Hank? A Mass. State Police officer? And he’d been lying to me the whole time. Lying to me. He’d been . . .

I turned on my side and slept.

Gert fetched me from the hospital. I had no idea what day it was. Demerol does that to me. My ferocious headache had quelled, and now all I wanted to do was get out of there. I was really okay. Just achy. Very, very achy.

And pissed. Very pissed at Hank Cunningham. I had asked him not to come back, and he hadn’t. Did he think I meant it?

“How long was I in the hospital?” I asked.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said.

“That’s more than enough for me.” A moment of panic. “Who’s got Penny?”

“Your hunky landlord. Yum, yum.”

“He is adorable, isn’t he? But definitely off limits, Gertie. He likes a smorgasbord, not one dish.”

“I know.” She frowned. “What a shame.”

On the drive to my apartment, Gert remained disturbingly quiet but for the popping of her Bazooka bubbles. They filled the air. Purple bubbles. Smelly ones.

“I’m fine, Gert. Really. So no worries. Okay?”

“Don’t,” she said. “You’re a mess.”

I didn’t have the energy to fight. Not then.

I used Gert’s arm and the railing to climb the small flight of stairs, thrilled that my apartment was on the first floor. Someone had nailed a plywood board across the yawning bow window in my bedroom. I guessed it was my landlord, Jake.

Inside, Penny greeted me with her usual bouncy exuberance. I was prepared for the place to be a shambles. Except for some residue fingerprint dust, it was neat by even my Aunt Bertha’s standards.

“Wow,” I said. “I thought it would be a wreck. Who cl—”

“Mr. Maine,” Gert said.

“Hank? Wow again.”

Gert slid my purse off my shoulder and laid it on the kitchen counter.

“Thanks, Gertie.”

“Sure, Tal,” she said. “How about I make you some soup or something?”

“Not now. Maybe I’ll just take a snoozle.” I opened the door to my bedroom. Another shock.

“Impressive!” Gert said.

New sheets, new duvet cover, new everything. A few down feather escapees from the vacuum floated on the air. Other than that and the plywood, I never would have known anything had happened.

“Boy,” Gert said. “I’d marry that guy really fast.”

“Great plan. Not.” I sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “He’d have gotten me good if I hadn’t leaned over to pet Penny. There are worse things than flying glass.” I ruffled Penny’s fur. “I’m glad she wasn’t hurt.”

Gert’s blue eyes widened. I recognized the fear in them. I took her hand. “Don’t worry, hon. All is well. Really.”

She slumped down beside me. “How can you say that? You’ve just had your window blown out by a shotgun, and you’re not talkin’ to the guy who did this great cleanup, and I’m afraid you won’t come back to MGAP and—”

“Sshhhh.” I wrapped an arm around her shoulder. I walked to a bowl on the bedside table. Someone had placed a small pile of shot in it. I picked up one of the small pellets. I looked from the bed to the boarded-up window. “Huh. Bird shot. I think it was supposed to be a warning, not meant to hurt me at all. Certainly this wasn’t meant to kill. Bird shot’s too small.”

“Yeah? That’s just
special
, Tal. C’mon! That’s almost as awful.”

I tugged on one of her blond locks. “But not quite, right? How about that soup.”

I sat up on the couch. I’d slept for a few minutes, that was all. Except my clock said I’d been out of it for ten hours.

“Cripes.” I ran a hand through my hair. Greasy and gross. Yuck. I needed a shower. Bad. I looked for Gert, but didn’t see her. The place was dark, too. Not enough lights on.

“Gert?”

Nada. Maybe she’d gone out for food. Was I hungry? I didn’t even know.

I unfolded myself from the couch. I ached in so many places I wasn’t sure which to groan about first. I let Penny out back, walked into the bathroom and . . . Some guy was . . . “Shit!”

I slammed the bathroom door and shoved the club chair in front of it. That wouldn’t keep him in.

I twirled. The redwood table! Weighed a ton. I began to pull. The thing was massive, but I could do it.

“Tally!”

I turned. Somehow he’d wedged the door slightly open, and a hairy arm flailed from the crack. I leapt at the door.

“Fuck!”
he bellowed.

I pushed and pushed, but I wasn’t making any headway.

“It’s Rob, goddammit.”

Rob. Kranak? Oh, crap. I stopped pushing, and the arm slid back inside. I tugged the chair out of the way. “Rob, I—”

“Don’t utter a frickin’ word,” he said from behind the door.

“I’m so sorry, I thought you were an intruder.”

“Brilliant.”

“You can come on out now. I’ll get you some tea.” Kranak loved tea.

Behind me, a large and looming presence coalesced as I filled the kettle with water and put it on the burner. “Rose hips, cinnamon, orange p—”