White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  It may have been the crisp night air, the exquisite thrill of a small adventure. Or the baseball bat clenched in her hand. Whatever the reason, the archaeologist discovered that she was made of stern stuff. Furthermore, Dr. Silk was becoming quite curious about what the graduate student had heard in the gathering darkness over Ghost Wolf Mesa. If there is something unusual going on out here, I must know what it is.

  There was a flash of lightning, a heart-stopping boom of thunder.

  But they were beyond turning back. And gradually, the young woman was emboldened by Amanda Silk’s display of courage.

  They moved forward resolutely, if slowly. From time to time—as if by some telepathically shared signal—the women would pause to listen intently. This was a time for Amanda Silk to strengthen her grip on the wooden club. Presently, one or the other would resume the trek. Together they moved on to an inevitable encounter with whoever—whatever—was out there in the night. Waiting.

  The climax to this misadventure occurred as they approached the rim of rubble marking the edge of a pit-house ruin. Melina was barely a step ahead of her older comrade. She paused.

  Dr. Silk stiffened. “Why are you stopping?”

  “I heard something,” the graduate student whispered.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  Melina squinted, as if this would help her see into the darkness. “Must’ve been a squirrel or something. Maybe we should just head back—”

  A brilliant electric fault sizzled across the blackness, cracking open the vault of heaven. The merest drop of light spilled out, blanching the mesa as a thousand noonday suns.

  Melina screeched, stumbled backward, and was immediately reinforced by a shrill shriek from her companion. This duet was accompanied by an ear-splitting percussion of thunder.

  For a moment that lasted an eternity, the women stood like small trees, firmly rooted to the earth in case the law of gravity had been repealed. There was another brief flash of lightning. “I think he’s gone,” Melina croaked. “The dirty, stinking, low-life, thieving sonofabitch—” She gasped for breath. “Why didn’t you brain him?”

  It seemed that the tables had turned again. There was only a single quanta of boldness being exchanged between them. When one woman felt a surge of courage, the other fairly whimpered. Now the older woman was trembling.

  Melina Castro switched on her flashlight. “Ha! The scum-sucking grave robber is gone, all right. I’m going to have a look at the hole he dug.”

  Amanda Silk felt a swell of nausea, thought she was about to vomit. Her knees began to buckle. “I think I’m going to faint…” And she did.

  All was dark. Amanda felt something hard under her shoulders and buttocks. Worse still, her left arm ached and her feet were terribly cold. What am I doing…sleeping on a pile of rocks? The distraught woman tried to clear her thoughts. Where am I? She felt someone slapping her face. “Hey,” she protested, “stop that!”

  Melina, who had retrieved the archaeologist’s baseball bat, was standing over her. “Get up,” the young woman whispered hoarsely. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  Amanda Silk had considerable difficulty getting to her feet.

  “Hurry,” Melina muttered, practically dragging the archaeologist along.

  “I’m going as fast as I can,” Amanda said breathlessly. “What’s the rush?”

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  This young woman has an annoying habit of repeating herself. “Why?”

  “Because,” Melina said, “in the hole where that man was digging…” Her words trailed off.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Where he was digging—there’s a body.”

  The archaeologist stopped in her tracks. “What sort of body?”

  “A dead one.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Melina was on the verge of hysteria. “Don’t you understand—he’s killed someone. And he was burying her in the pit-house ruin!”

  Amanda’s head was clearing. “Was it—anyone we know?”

  “I didn’t really get a good look at him.”

  “No,” Amanda said wearily, “I mean—the dead person.”

  Melina identified the victim.

  “Oh God—surely not.”

  “We’ve got to get off the mesa and into town. We’ll get into my car and—”

  “This is all very confusing.” Amanda tripped over a piñon root.

  Melina squeezed her companion’s arm till it hurt. “The murderer—he’s still out here somewhere. We’ve got to get away before he finds us.”

  They almost bumped into him.

  “Eh!” he said.

  This resulted in more screams.

  “Excuse me. I did not mean to startle—”

  Melina raised the small bat in a menacing gesture. “Get out of our way, you murderous bastard—or I’ll crack your skull wide open!” Her voice quavered. “And stomp my feet in your brains.”

  The apparition raised his palm. “It was not my intention to alarm you. Please calm yourselves, ladies.” This voice, which carried a distinct tone of authority, was a familiar one.

  Melina—on the verge of carrying out her violent threat—hesitated. “Dr. Axton—is that you?”

  “It is. And I would be immensely gratified if you lowered that ridiculous weapon.”

  The graduate student surrendered the bat to its rightful owner. “Well, it’s a good thing you identified yourself. I could’ve killed you!”

  “I think not,” Silas Axton sniffed. “Now what on earth is going on out here? I arrived just minutes ago, and heard the most godawful screams. Loud enough to wake the dead.”

  Melina was almost stuttering with relief. “Professor Axton. It was just awful—I’m so glad to see you.”

  “I wish I could say the same. Now tell me—what sort of nocturnal mischief have you two been up to?”

  Confronted by one of her peers, Dr. Amanda Silk had managed to regain a slight measure of her dignity. And her voice. “Silas, we were out looking for a pothunter.”

  His tone softened, as if this explanation sounded almost plausible. “And did you find the scoundrel?”

  The archaeologist drew herself up to her full height. “Yes—and no.”

  “Pardon me, Amanda—but this response sounds distinctly contradictory.”

  Pedantic old bastard. “Yes, Melina found him. No, he was something worse than a pothunter.”

  “Confound it woman—then what was he?”

  “According to this young lady”—Amanda took a deep breath—“he was a murderer.”

  Professor Silas Axton, who had once served as a high school principal on the south side of Chicago, took this grim news quite in stride. “Ah. A murderer. Well, then—do we know whom he has murdered?”

  “Thankfully, I did not see the corpse.” Amanda pointed the baseball bat at her youthful companion. “But if Miss Castro is not mistaken, the body is that of April Tavishuts.”

  ARBOLES, THE AZTEC CAFE

  The men were seated at a table covered with a blue-and-white-checked oilcloth. Wallace Whitehorse, chief of Southern Ute police, raised his gaze from the steaming plate of tamales and refried beans. Just long enough to glance across the table at the formidable Ute who had come within a whisker of having the job that was now his. “So how’ve you been, Charlie?”

  “If things was any better, I wouldn’t hardly be able to stand it.” Having different priorities than the Cheyenne, Charlie Moon did not look up from his plate. “How’s the law-enforcement business?”

  “Ahh, things are going kinda so-so. I don’t think most of the officers mind that I’m not a Ute.”

  “I hear you’ve got the department operating smoothly.”

  “I like to think so.”

  “Anything new on Julius Santos?”

  Whitehorse frowned at this unwelcome reference. “He’s still a missing person. BIA cops are looking into it. Some of my officers have helped ’em search the boonies within a fe
w miles of the Santos place. Didn’t find a trace of him.”

  “It’s a rugged country,” the Ute said. “They might’ve come within ten feet of his body and not seen it.”

  “Yeah. Someday a deer hunter’ll stumble over his bones. I expect Santos’s horse throwed him.”

  Moon knew the horse. Snuffy was a stable mount—not one to spook. But a crusty old nag that’d step over a diamondback rattler without blinking an eye might go pie-eyed and rear up on her hind legs if a cottontail jumped up. So maybe Whitehorse was right.

  The Northern Cheyenne was looking at his reflection in the restaurant window. Musing about what a big, lonesome country this Ute reservation was. “Break a leg out there, you’re same as a dead man.”

  A slender waitress showed up to refill water glasses and coffee mugs.

  Whitehorse watched her depart, then stirred artificial sweetener into the fresh coffee. “Surprised you were able to get away from your ranch. Big operation like that must keep you hopping.”

  Moon understood the implied questions. What had brought him to Ignacio—and why had he invited the chief of police to supper? Whitehorse had retired from the U.S. Army and the Military Police just a few months ago, and been hired as the tribe’s new chief of police. A job that I thought was mine for the asking. Moon had been passed over in circumstances that were, at best, murky. At worst, the result of one politician’s white-hot malice. There were persistent rumors that the tribal council had voted overwhelmingly for Moon as chief of police. And that the previous tribal chairman had—by some dark and clever subterfuge—cheated him out of the appointment. But whatever had happened was in the past. A man must live in the here and now. And here and now was going pretty good. Moon took a bite of beef enchilada, followed this with a sip of sweet black coffee. “Few days ago, I had a visit from Oscar Sweetwater.”

  The expression on the Northern Cheyenne’s broad face remained neutral. But Moon, who was a skilled poker player, saw the muscles tense in Whitehorse’s jaw.

  The chief of police used a spoon handle to punch a hole in his sopaipilla. He picked up a sticky plastic bottle, squirted honey into the makeshift orifice. “So what did Mr. Sweetwater think of your ranch?”

  Which meant: Why did the chairman drive over a hundred miles to see you. Why not call you on the telephone. Must’ve been some important business.

  “I think he liked the Columbine,” Moon said. “But that wasn’t why he came to see me.”

  Whitehorse waited for the former Ute police officer to tell him.

  “He offered me a job.”

  The Northern Cheyenne set the honey container down. Hard enough to jar the table. “Well, I’ve seen it coming.” He shook his head. “I figured I couldn’t last longer than a year in this damn job. Wondered how long it’d take the council to decide that Utes didn’t want a Cheyenne running their cop shop.”

  “That’s not what it was about,” Moon said.

  The sudden relief exploded on Whitehorse’s face. “It wasn’t?”

  “Matter-of-fact, the council is happy with you.” This was only a slight exaggeration. “And they should be. You’ve been doing a first-rate job.”

  “Thanks. But it’s no secret that every Ute on the reservation expected you to get the position after Roy Severo retired. There’s even talk that the past chairman pulled a fast one to make sure you were bypassed.”

  Moon waved this gossip aside. “Doesn’t matter. Besides, I’m a full-time rancher now. Don’t have the time to be anybody’s chief of police.” He smiled. “Or the inclination.”

  The Northern Cheyenne’s smile outshined the neon sign on the window. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. I’d like to keep this job for a while.”

  “I expect you will.” Moon helped himself to a sopaipilla. “Oscar wants me to act as a kind of consultant for the tribal council.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Investigations. On issues that fall outside the normal jurisdiction of the Southern Ute Police Department.”

  Whitehorse’s brow furrowed. “Sounds like PI work.”

  Moon nodded. “I’ll be looking into matters that are officially off-limits to SUPD officers. Poking around whatever issues the tribal government is interested in. I’ll be reporting directly to the chairman.” He stirred his coffee. “I’ll need your cooperation.”

  “Hey—you’ve got it.” Whitehorse had a dozen questions, but he held his tongue. Charlie Moon was a fair man. But the big Ute would tell him only what he wanted him to know. And that would have to be enough.

  They finished their meal without referring again to Moon’s appointment. The Ute had just finished his strawberry ice cream when the radio transceiver on Whitehorse’s belt made a garbling sound. It sounded, Moon thought, like someone strangling a goat. The chief of police stepped outside the restaurant while the tribal investigator paid the bill.

  As the Ute emerged from the cafe, Whitehorse was warming up the engine on his patrol car. “There’s a request for assistance up at the Chimney Rock ruins. Looks like I’m the closest officer available.”

  “Don’t let me keep you.”

  “You might want to come along.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “They claim there’s a dead body up there.”

  BACK IN THE SADDLE

  Even with the accelerator pedal on the floorboard, Moon was barely able to keep in sight of the flashing emergency lights on Whitehorse’s well-tuned Chevrolet patrol car. Charlie Moon’s aging Ford pickup protested with the clacking of worn valves and a dozen miscellaneous rattles; the whisker-thin speedometer needle jittered just above seventy. On the top of Dutchman’s Hill, a hubcap was ejected—to sail serenely over Stollsteimer Creek like a Lilliputian saucer from a tiny planet. Moon almost caught up when Whitehorse slowed to turn in at the Chimney Rock Archaeological Site entrance, where the gate was open. He got even closer to the low-slung Chevy as it rumbled along the bumpy gravel road ascending the piñon-studded rim of Ghost Wolf Mesa. When the chief of police braked to a rocking halt in the small parking lot, Charlie Moon was a mere fifty yards behind.

  The living occupants of the mesa were assembled, awaiting the arrival of the authorities. Wallace Whitehorse introduced himself as chief of Southern Ute police, flashed his ID at the civilians. After a moment’s hesitation, he introduced Charlie Moon as “a special investigator for the tribe.”

  “I,” the head of the scholarly delegation said, “am Professor Silas Axton. Chairman of the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University.” He turned to his colleague. “This is Dr. Amanda Silk. She is a contract archaeologist for the United States Forest Service. At present, she is performing salvage archaeology here at the Chimney Rock site.”

  Charlie Moon smiled at the shaken woman. “We’ve met before.”

  Whitehorse looked over Axton’s shoulder at a half dozen younger people. “What about them?”

  “They are graduate students,” the professor said in a dismissive manner. “Part of a survey crew working under my direction. Most of them arrived within the past hour or so.” He turned to nod to a young woman. “Except for this one. She is—in a sense—the reason that I summoned the police.” The tone of his voice revealed his disapproval. “This young lady has actually seen the body. Or so she says.”

  The young woman in question, now much composed, stepped forward. “I’m Melina Castro.”

  Moon recognized the name. This was the grad student who’d claimed she’d seen a peculiar man up on the Crag last summer. A man who’d changed into a four-legged beast and chased her back to the encampment.

  Wallace Whitehorse removed a microcassette recorder from his pocket. “Miss Castro, I’m going to ask you some questions. Mind if I tape our conversation?”

  Melina shook her head. And looked at the man behind the chief of police. He was the one who had found the lost Zuni child. And he had also found the Twin War Gods petroglyph. Although he claimed the little girl had shown it
to him.

  Whitehorse pushed the Record button, muttered the date, time of day, and location into the tiny microphone. He shoved the instrument under the young woman’s nose. “Okay. Please state your name. Then tell me what happened.”

  She repeated her name. “I’m a graduate student in Professor Axton’s department. Last night, I got a telephone call from Professor Axton’s secretary. Telling me that the schedule for our survey at Chimney Rock had been moved forward several days. The work is going to start tomorrow, so I came to the site tonight. When I got here, I saw another grad student’s car parked on the gravel road. Which is unusual, if you know what I mean.”

  Whitehorse, who didn’t know what she meant, interrupted. “Excuse me, Miss Castro. Just for the record, who is this other student?”

  “April Tavishuts.”

  “She’s a tribal member,” Moon said. “Stepdaughter of Alvah Yazzi. Alvah has a place just down the road from here. April lives in an apartment in Granite Creek.”

  Melina continued. “I got to the site this evening.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I guess it was a little past eight. I saw April’s car.”

  “A Toyota sedan?” Whitehorse asked. He’d passed it on the way in.

  “Yeah. That’s it. I stopped to have a look, but she wasn’t there. And then I saw something off in the trees.” She looked off into the darkness.

  “What did you see?”

  “A dog, I think.” She hugged herself. “And when the wind was just right, I heard some odd sounds. Like someone digging. So I thought it must be a pothunter.”

  Whitehorse looked bewildered.

  “An artifact thief,” Amanda Silk explained. “Someone who unearths the Anasazi graves to remove burial goods. Like ceramics.”

  Melina continued her account. “So I went and found Dr. Silk in her camping trailer. We went to investigate.”

  Whitehorse—who had a daughter about Melina’s age—shook his head at this. “Didn’t that seem like a dangerous thing to do?”

  “Not at the time. We would’ve called the police, except I don’t have a cell phone. And Dr. Silk’s wasn’t working. Besides, she had this baseball bat.”