Yellow Lies

by Susan Slater

  163

  YELLOW LIES

  Ben Pecos Mysteries, Book 2

  Published by Secret Staircase Books, an imprint of

  Columbine Publishing Group

  PO Box 416, Angel Fire, NM 87710

  Copyright © 2000 Susan Slater

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Although the author and publisher have made every effort to ensure the accuracy and completeness of information contained in this book we assume no responsibility for errors, inaccuracies, omissions, or any inconsistency herein. Any slights of people, places or organizations are unintentional.

  Book layout and design by Secret Staircase Books

  First trade paperback edition: January 2018

  First e-book edition: January 2018

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Slater, Susan

  Yellow Lies / by Susan Slater

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1945422393 paperback

  ISBN 978-1945422409 e-book

  1. Pecos, Ben (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Pueblo Indians--Fiction.

  3. New Mexico--Fiction. 4. Amber--Fiction. 5. I. Title

  Ben Pecos Mystery Series : Book 2

  Slater, Susan, Ben Pecos mysteries.

  BISAC : FICTION / Mystery & Detective.

  813/.54

  To my friend, mentor, fan, Norman Zollinger—I will never stop “hearing” your advice: “Susan, learn to edit! Develop an ear for the crap and leave it out!” You will forever continue to make me a better writer. I miss your enthusiasm for writing, zest for life and unending support.

  + + +

  Get another Susan Slater book FREE—click here to find out how!

  CHAPTER ONE

  The coyote howled four times. Salvador Zuni laughed, realizing he was holding his breath, then waited for another long piercing wail—hoped for another. In the old days, four cries was the signal for the gathering of witches. Did he believe that today? He wasn’t sure. But if he didn’t, why had he paused? He sighed and still waited, but there were no more yippy songs from the mesa. That was just his luck. When he needed everything to be going his way, there was this omen.

  It wasn’t that he felt threatened, just vaguely uneasy—more like he was being warned by the shadows that whispered behind him, followed him. He’d feel someone watching, but he’d turn and find no one. At night, dream-strangers dressed in the costumes of his ancestors would ring his bed and chant, mouths open in soundless harmony. Usually, Atoshle, the ogre kachina came. Sal’s skin prickled with a fine coating of sweat. Was it the work of the hadikanne, the witch society? Maybe he should see a shaman. But that wouldn’t be cheap.

  Four staccato barks burst through the silence coming from somewhere to his left, a half mile, maybe a mile, behind him. In answer to the first four calls? They could be. But he’d have to believe that a witch could turn itself into a coyote and call other members of the society together. And he just wasn’t certain about that.

  Sal leaned against the bark of the cottonwood. He’d wait, watch, just to be sure. If it was coincidence, he’d get to work soon enough. He liked to visit the river at dusk and watch the night come alive with its creatures. No one had followed him—even knew he was gone, for that matter. But, he couldn’t be too careful. No need to arouse suspicion. He’d parked his pickup a quarter mile back in dense brush and carried his tools with him, the sacks of mason jars, small nets, pins, and a vial of formaldehyde. He needed the cover of darkness to hunt his tiny prey.

  And it wasn’t like what he was doing was wrong—not really wrong—the type that could hurt someone. This wrong was more of a lie. But Hannah always said he worried too much. How would people find out? Raid his workshop? He kept the one room behind his trailer locked. And there wasn’t a pile of the stuff anywhere. At least, not for long.

  Hannah found an outlet, a local trader who traveled, someone they could trust. Sal wasn’t so certain about this last part, but Hannah was confident. As soon as Sal got twenty pounds ahead, she’d pack it up and send it off. The man sold almost all of Sal’s raw material out of state. Hannah only kept his carved pieces at the trading post— and then just a few. They hadn’t been careless. Unless this trader, Ahmed, told ....

  Sal hated the pressure. He was an artist, a carver in the old tradition. He’d been against Hannah’s plan at first. Hannah had the idea, asked him to try different recipes, said to trust her. She knew it could be done, actually had been done before, but those people had been careless, had gotten caught. She felt the reservation offered good cover, different jurisdiction and all, sort of put them above suspicion.

  And she had played her ace. The one thing she knew he’d help her with—keeping her son in that special school. “A short time, Salvador. I’m only asking that you make amber for a short time. The school is so costly. You want Harold to be successful, don’t you?”

  Harold. Always Harold when she wanted something from him. Unspoken but insinuated that perhaps this child was his. Sal didn’t know for certain, but he supposed it could be true. There had been indiscretions, the hapless encounters outside a loveless marriage.

  So, he’d agreed to make amber. And his work was good, something to be proud of. No one could tell the difference between old and new. The formula was his. It was not for sale and not for sharing. Even Hannah didn’t know how he did it. How he made this golden, prehistoric sap—fabricated the ancient jewel of the woods right down to its enclosures.

  He’d learned to mix resins, add color, encapsulate a leaf, twig or insect and no one suspected—not even using a magnifying glass. He dried the animal/vegetable inserts in a vacuum cylinder, sucked their juices carefully from their forms and left them exactly as in life, perfect with only a hint of their former coloration. His amber was a work of art.

  People paid big money for his discovery, his handiwork. Hannah was sending off more and more of it in its raw form. Egg cartons filled with irregular golden balls the size of peas, marbles and golf balls left the trading post, some by United Parcel, others waited for the middleman, this trader, to pick them up. Fat checks came back in return—five thousand here, ten thousand there. His shed held the makings of a fortune.

  Animated voices floated above the river’s song and poked at his consciousness. Kids were out drinking beer. The early evening was warm, unseasonably hot for June, and swarms of pesky mosquitos buzzed around his ears. Hannah had helped him adjust the new hearing aid, but its hum rattled in his head, getting louder if he nodded. When he turned the thing up, it made the mosquitos sound like dive bombers. He dug in his ear until the tiny plastic oblong, the size of a flesh-colored beetle, lay in his palm. And the quiet returned. Now that was interesting. If you didn’t hear the coyotes, did it mean their message had no impact?

  But that sounded decidedly like Father Leget’s lesson on “if a tree fell in the forest and no one was there to hear it, did it make a noise?” He had thought about that until his brain hurt. And when he couldn’t figure it out, he’d asked the priest about its meaning. And the priest had laughed and slapped his shoulder and told him to keep working on it. But he hadn’t. He knew when he was bested.

  Sal waved away the mosquitos, fretted with his loose cotton shirt until its tail flopped out over his jeans and then carefully pushed the tiny bit of plastic back into his ear. Maybe, if he conce
ntrated on the river ... He didn’t mind the hearing aid, not really. It was free from the Government. And his loss of hearing had gotten him out of the military on disability, out of uniform and home to his artwork, with a monthly check. That had been over thirty years ago.

  The full moon seemed sluggish in the heat and rose slowly, unfurling silver light across the river’s wet rocks. Sal gazed at the slippery shine that spread along the shallows and sought him in the shadow of the cottonwood. Hot, moon-bright, summer nights were the best to gather the tiny insects for his collection—for his work. He’d gotten a book from the Library On Wheels that had pictures of hundreds of insects native to the Southwest and had circled the pictures of ones he liked. He tended to lean toward anything with pinchers, but iridescent wings ran a close second.

  Snatches of conversation floated across the water. Playful banter that meant someone would probably get laid later on. Sal winced. How long had it been since he’d approached Hannah? A month, two months? He’d have to make sure the drought ended one of these days.

  He let his thoughts stay on Hannah, a tall, bony Anglo woman with stringy blond hair tied back at the neckline of some shapeless, ankle-length dress in checks or faded flowers. And always those same sandals—with thick socks in the winter when there was snow on the ground. Even if her legs, covered with downy-soft hair that had never known a razor, turned blue with cold, she never wore anything different, no slacks or heavy skirts. She’d come to the reservation in the sixties every weekend, an anthropology student from Maine doing work at the University of New Mexico. And she’d met her husband, the owner of the trading post.

  Only he’d been a lot older—maybe by a full twenty years. And when Ed Rawlings dropped dead one spring day, leaving a thirty-something widow and a five-year-old son, everyone on the reservation expected her to leave. Pack up, close the Trading Post, sell the inventory to another Anglo and never be seen again. But that wasn’t the way things happened. Hannah stayed, stayed and struggled to make a go of things. The odds were against her, alone like she was.

  Sal had felt beholden to help. Because of the child? Maybe. He didn’t try to figure out why. Yet, at the time he had hesitated, waited six months before he’d offered himself, made her realize that he would do whatever she needed, odd jobs, help with the trading post. He told her he could move out there, board with her. She allowed as how she would feel safer. It was Hannah who had come up with the trailer, made his lodging part of their deal. She couldn’t thank him enough, said she’d had no one else to turn to.

  But what she needed was much more of a personal thing. She wanted to sleep with him, continue a relationship that, at best, had been a handful of one-night stands. Was this the real reason he’d moved out there? Could be. Hannah was young, vulnerable, pretty ... and she’d come at him like a she-wolf. Deprivation. It was a primal hunger like he’d never seen and had almost been too much that first time. He’d had difficulty performing.

  But he had to respect her. She was fair to his people, a good businesswoman, and she took care of her son. Once a year, after she’d visit the boy in that special, year-round school in Albuquerque, she’d travel back East and sell. Business was always second. Sometimes reservation artists would go with her. At first, that had made Sal jealous. But again, it was like the tree in the forest—if you weren’t there to hear it fall ....

  He stooped to turn over the rotting end of a log and deftly caught three scavenger beetles. All had neatly formed pinchers. He’d put them in separate jars. He was beginning to consider himself an expert on insects and could discuss original hosts, larvae, and parasitical control of pest infestation at the drop of a hat. Only that wasn’t very often because Hannah warned him that he shouldn’t seem so knowledgeable. It might arouse suspicion.

  His stomach’s gurgling broke his reverie. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. Maybe he should get his pickup and drive into Gallup for some KFC, or maybe Chinese and take some by the trading post. Hannah loved pan-fried noodles with her chicken chow mein. He could be there by eight-thirty.

  He gathered up the jars he’d set beside the log. There was never any waste. What insects he didn’t use, he’d give to Harold who was home this summer for the first time since he was ten. He’d been released at the age of twenty, not cured exactly, but able to cope, help his mother, anyway.

  Sal smiled. Nobody but his mother called him Harold; he’d been .22 so long only a few remembered why—remembered that old Ed hadn’t owned a twelve-gauge, the usual choice of firearm for a man to shoot in the air to commemorate the birth of his first son. So, it had been a .22—a rifle pointed skyward in celebration. But had he known that his only son wouldn’t have made a twelve-gauge proud? That he would be ... what did Hannah call it? Learning impaired?

  It was odd to see .22 almost grown. But for all his size, he was still a little boy—and a handful. Hannah had to keep an eye on him. Sal helped when he could, took .22 fishing, or collected toads and frogs with him. At least these amphibians ate any leftovers Sal had after he’d picked over his catch. It made Sal feel better to think that nothing was needlessly killed; nothing went to waste. And .22’s little green friends were fat and happy.

  The trip back to the truck took longer than he’d expected. He couldn’t move too fast on account of all the glass jars in grocery sacks; he tried to keep them from knocking together. He had two ice chests in the bed of the truck, and he’d put his catch there. All the mason jars fit snugly with cardboard in between and only squeaked against the sides of the Styrofoam when he turned a corner.

  He was intent on this business of fitting the jars into their resting place for their ride home and was singly aware of how his stomach repeatedly grumbled now—ever since he’d thought about food, promised it something to grumble over. He put the last jar in place and leaned over the tailgate to inspect his charges—some kept prisoner with nothing more than wax paper and a rubber band over the jar’s mouth.

  A twig snapped. Somewhere barely thirty feet to his right, something had moved. He straightened up and listened but didn’t look that way. Had a shadow flitted along the edge of the trees? Something subliminal had registered on his brain, seen only by his mind’s eye. He used to carry a rifle in a gun rack that hung in the back window of the cab. But the gun disappeared. It was too difficult to remember to lock the truck every time he parked. So, it had tempted someone to just reach in and take it, a pump action Remington, a reminder of his seventh birthday. There had been a time when someone’s property wouldn’t have been touched on the reservation.

  He moved toward the cab of the truck and stuck one arm through the open window. Still staring ahead of him into the darkness, he fumbled for the switch to the headlights. He pulled the knob quickly and then, without waiting, walked to where the two beams of light thrust into the trees and seemed stopped by the dense foliage some thirty feet dead center. A buffalo moth began a series of drunken loops, edging closer to the circle of light, before falling away to begin the spiral all over again. Sal pushed past the rim of light and stood in waist-high grass.

  Nothing. He wished he could trust his hearing, but he couldn’t. Sometimes he could hear a leaf fall, other times like now he strained to pick up any sound that didn’t belong. Even as his eyes adjusted, the too-bright headlights masked rather than revealed his surroundings. They weren’t any help. He told himself it was his imagination. The cries of the coyote had made him edgy, ready to jump at his own shadow. He turned back.

  As he neared the truck, it didn’t dawn on him at first why one headlight would be turning pink, but he stooped to find out and put his hand in liquid that was spreading languidly from a pool between fender and hood. He jerked upright and held his hand in front of the light. Blood. But he hadn’t needed to confirm it by sight. His brain registered blood the moment he had felt the slightly congealed warmth and smelled its peculiar metallic odor.

  He willed his heart to stop pounding. Then after a deep breath, he blinked away the temporary blindness from the headligh
ts, moved his eyes to look for the source, and focused on the hood of the truck.

  The body sprawled spread-eagle, head propped against the windshield. Eyes wide, mouth open as if in surprise. A splash of red splotched the whiteness of his shirt. Why? Who could have done this? From the void of shock came a jangling flood of questions. But the worst? The most sobering thought of all—he knew this man. It was the trader, the one who sold his amber—the one outsider who knew about the fraud.

  Sal held his bloodied hand away from his body. Already his fingers were beginning to tingle and the palm of his right hand grew hot. Then his fingers began to swell. He didn’t wait but ran crashing through the brush toward the river. He had to wash the blood away or be tainted forever by the dead.

  Slipping on the rocks, he fell headlong into the shallows and pulled himself forward on his elbows until he could immerse his arm up to the shoulder. And then he lay there oblivious of the wetness that penetrated his jeans, lapped against his neck, soaked the toes of his Ropers. And prone he waited, felt the water gently cleanse him, lull him into breathing steadily—deep breaths forcing oxygen into his depleted lungs.

  The moon was now high overhead. He’d lost track of time, but things seemed normal finally. Frog songs trilled into the night. He waited then pushed to his hands and knees, still listening, then upright to stand in the bright darkness—silhouetted in the sparkling shininess of the moon’s path across the water. His hand was clean with little washboard puckers across his fingertips from its immersion.

  He slipped off his shirt, wrung it damp-dry, then twisted it into a roll and held it to the base of his neck before bending over to splash more cold water on his face from cupped hands. He smoothed his shoulder-length black hair straight back. The moonlight bleached his bronze skin, and he couldn’t suppress a shiver as a breeze skipped across his chest, thin and sinew-taut with the bare outline of ribs. He had been a runner in high school. A wall full of trophies at his sister’s house said he had been pretty good.