The Jupiter Knife

by D. J. Butler

  Though had he seen a demon, really?

  Maybe he had been confused. Maybe he and his pap had both been confused.

  “Look,” the clerk said, “you want me to give you directions to the Grand County Courthouse? That’s where he has his office. If he isn’t there, there will at least be a deputy on duty.”

  Michael took the directions and drove the few blocks to the courthouse. The lights here were electric and on, throwing bright yellow sheets of light out into the street in two directions from the corner where the courthouse stood, bulky and shadowed in the darkness. Michael left the truck out front, with the revolver out of sight in the glove compartment, and entered.

  Two men in khaki shirtsleeves and slacks sat at a desk in the reception room. One was bone-thin and beet-red, studiously working at a crossword puzzle on the desk. The second man was older, bald and whiskered, with big sideburns that sprouted from his wrinkled face. He squinted at Michael, his right eye completely closed. A big gold cross lay on his uniformed chest, hanging on a thick gold chain.

  “You’re not one of my deputies,” the man with the bad eye said. “Usually, that means you’re a concerned citizen here to report a crime, or you’re a member of the American Automobile Association who’s lost his map. Fifty-fifty. You did pull up in a truck, that leans me toward the AAA. On the other hand, you look more like an Injun down from the Uintah and Ouray than a tourist. Maybe a farmer. Do I know you?”

  “I’m looking for the sheriff,” Michael said. “I have to report a murder.”

  “So much for the Triple-A.” The man sighed and leaned forward, taking the newspaper and pen from the other man at the desk.

  “Jack,” the second guy protested, “I just figured out that nine across is Cincinnatus.”

  “Hold that thought,” Jack said. “I have to take notes, and I left my notepad in my other pants. Now then, boy, you said murder.”

  Was this guy kidding him? “Can I see the sheriff?” Michael asked.

  “You’re looking at him. Jack Del Rose, Grand County Sheriff. Did you want to report a murder or not?”

  Michael nodded. “Lloyd Preece. He’s a rancher—”

  “I know Lloyd.” The sheriff jotted down a note. “Where’s the body?”

  Michael found that his hands were shaking. “He’s been killed at his cabin up the canyon. My father and I stumbled across his body because we’re camping on his land. And there was a guy who came rushing out of the cabin. We didn’t see him, but he smelled like alcohol. And…like maybe he hadn’t bathed in a while. Maybe years.”

  The sheriff jotted down another note. “Okay, we’re on it.” Then he handed the pen and newspaper back to the other man.

  “Do you…do you want to follow me up the canyon?”

  “I know where Lloyd lives,” Del Rose said. “I can find my own way there.”

  Michael found himself furrowing his brow. “Are you going to come up soon?”

  “Sure,” Jack Del Rose said. “Just as soon as Russ here writes down Cincinnati.”

  “Cincinnatus,” Russ said.

  Michael hesitated. On the one hand, the sheriff didn’t seem anxious to rush to do his duty. On the other hand, was that Michael’s problem? And maybe if he pushed, he’d only draw attention to himself.

  “Seven letters,” Russ said, “drilled the Continental Army at Valley Forge.”

  “Craftsman,” the sheriff suggested. “I use a Craftsman drill myself.”

  Michael forced himself not to shake his head as he left.

  * * *

  Michael was still feeling shaky when he pulled off at Preece’s cabin. When he told his pap the cavalry was coming, but was going to take its own time, Hiram only ran his fingers through his hair.

  “You get some sleep, son,” he said. “I’ll watch the house, make sure nothing comes in to trouble the body.”

  “You’re tired, too.”

  Hiram nodded. “But you have to drive, so I need you alert.”

  Michael was too tired to argue. He left the crime scene, which was a strange way of thinking about the house, and drove back to their camp. His father had enough guns for a second Great War, and so Michael had taken the revolver. He did like the feel of it under his pillow.

  Despite the evening’s excitement, or possibly because of it, Michael fell instantly asleep.

  Chapter Ten

  On Saturday morning, Moab looked deserted. Hiram and Michael filled the Double-A’s tank at a gas station. While Michael talked with the gas station attendant, Hiram drifted out into the main street to stretch the sleep from his eyes, ponder, and watch.

  The events of the previous night had left him stretched thin. Fighting always took it out of him, chi-rho medallion or no. And then, after the hours Hiram had spent mulling over the puzzle of Preece’s murder, the sheriff’s deputy who had finally arrived had been virtually indifferent. He hadn’t even taken a statement from Hiram, just shooed him away and told him to come down to the courthouse in the morning.

  Should that indifference tell Hiram something?

  The attendant finished, and Hiram joined his son in the Double-A. “It’s odd that the sheriff himself didn’t come out to talk to us.”

  Michael chuckled. “Well, he did such a bang-up job with the Jimmy Udall case. Maybe he has this newest murder firmly under control by some means we can’t see.”

  “Is this some kind of Buck Rogers thing? Mind rays or something?”

  “I was thinking magic,” Michael said. “Maybe he’d do that thing you told me about, with scissors.”

  “Sieve and shears.” Hiram chuckled uneasily.

  “Do you think they’re connected?” Michael asked. “The two murders?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “I bet they are,” Michael said. “Preece showed a lot of interest in the ghost. Except the thing is, Jimmy’s body wasn’t found. The murderer left Preece’s body where he killed him.”

  “Or maybe I surprised him so he couldn’t move it,” Hiram noted. “But the deaths were eight months and maybe twelve miles apart. That doesn’t exactly suggest a link.”

  “To the sheriff’s, then?” Michael asked.

  “Yep. You mind staying in the car?”

  Michael had a way of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and Hiram didn’t want to get sideways with the sheriff. He didn’t want the trouble, he didn’t want the fame. He especially didn’t want word of his connection with this murder to get back to Bishop Smith. John Wells had enough headaches already.

  “Trying to keep me out of that exciting crossword puzzle action, eh?”

  Hiram chuckled.

  “I can stay outside, Pap. But I think you need me in on this. I’m a keen observer. Don’t worry, I’ll keep my mouth shut. We’re partners, right?”

  Hiram surrendered.

  The Grand County Courthouse was a blocky red and white sandstone structure off Main Street. Michael pulled up on the street; there was plenty of parking.

  The court parts of the building seemed to be closed, but the front doors were open to give access to the sheriff’s office. Inside, the ceilings were high, and they followed signs to the door marked GRAND COUNTY SHERIFF. Men’s voices in low tones came from the room.

  Hiram knocked on the doorjamb. Michael stood behind him.

  Sheriff Jack Del Rose was older than Hiram expected, bearded and bald. He wore his uniform well, his black shoes shined to a gleam. He squinted at Hiram and gripped the gold cross that hung around his neck.

  Hiram struggled not to touch the cross in the bib pocket of his overalls, his new charm against the falling sickness. The charm had worked, so far, hadn’t it?

  Gudmund Gudmundson stood with the sheriff in the office, beside a large desk. Gudmund’s arms were crossed on his chest, the corners of his mouth turned down. “Hiram,” the bishop said, “I can’t thank you enough for coming to the sheriff so quickly last night. I feel awful about Lloyd. I can’t…can’t believe anyone would want to kill him.”


  Del Rose nodded. “Yes. Mr. Woolley, isn’t it? You’re a good citizen. I appreciate you waiting for my deputy last night. We had a bit of a busy evening, and I know that left you sitting around awhile.”

  A busy evening? Michael had described crossword puzzles. Hiram smiled. “Didn’t want coyotes to get at the body.”

  Gudmundson shuddered. “I visited Lloyd myself yesterday. To think, if I’d been a little later, maybe the evening would have turned out differently.”

  Hiram nodded. “Or if we had returned a little earlier.” Perhaps even just minutes earlier. Perhaps if Michael had simply driven straight to Preece’s cabin rather than to their own campsite, Preece would be alive. “I guess you must have been there in the afternoon?”

  “Late afternoon. You and your son were out on the Monument?”

  “Pretty country.” Hiram stepped farther into the office. The window was open. Cool air leaked in, smelling of the sage in the sunshine.

  Michael shuffled in as well.

  The sheriff stuck out a hand. “I met your son last night, Mr. Woolley. I’m Sheriff Jack Del Rose, and unless you’re a suspect, you can call me Jack.”

  Hiram shook the hand. “You can call me Hiram. Even if I am a suspect.” He nearly kicked himself for the dumb joke.

  The sheriff turned to Michael. “You know, I didn’t think of it last night, Williams Drugstore has a fine display of Indian carpets and jewelry. You might be interested.”

  “I’ve never been to the Uintah and Ouray Reservation.” Michael’s smile was tight and forced. “I was born Navajo. And thanks, we’ve been meaning to get to the drug store. My pap is a big fan of ice cream.”

  The sheriff chuckled and chewed a lip. “Best ice cream around, and don’t tell Banjo I said that.”

  Gudmundson didn’t laugh. He looked stricken.

  Del Rose cleared his throat. “Deputy Pickens collected the body last night. It’s a shame. His throat was cut ear to ear, lying on his own living room floor, though of course you two both know that. Helluva thing. No question of accidental death or natural causes.”

  Hiram’s eyes went to the knife at Gudmundson’s side. Preece had had his throat slit, and his knife was missing. Why did the rancher and the handyman have such strange, and similar, blades?

  Gudmundson noticed the stare. The handyman unsheathed the blade. “I was just in to talk to the sheriff about the knife.”

  “Deputy Pickens noticed that Lloyd’s knife was missing,” Jack Del Rose said. “When I called Bishop Gudmundson here this morning to let him know his counselor wasn’t going to make it to church tomorrow, I mentioned the knife, and he came right over.”

  “In case the sheriff needed to know what the missing knife looks like,” Gudmundson said.

  Michael brightened. “That’s a fine piece. Can I see it?”

  Gudmundson handed it over and then sucked in a breath. “Lloyd and I picked up a pair in Salt Lake. We were up there for some reason, found them in a curio shop, and the dates were just too perfect, so we had to get them.” A shadow passed over his face. “I don’t know what I’ll do with him gone.”

  Hiram saw the markings on the knife; characters across the hilt looked Hebrew to his eye, and there were two different abstract geometric designs etched into the blade, one on each side. Were they the same as the markings on Lloyd’s knife? “What do you mean, the dates were perfect?”

  Gudmundson nodded. “I’m no astrologer, you understand, but those signs on the blade…one of them is the sign of the planet Jupiter. And the other is Aquarius.”

  Hiram struggled not to feel self-conscious of his limited knowledge in this sphere. “So your star-sign is Aquarius? Was Jupiter in Aquarius when you were born? Or are the signs perfect for some other reason?”

  “That’s not my birth-sign.” Gudmundson cracked a grin. “I’m not sure what my birth-sign is, frankly. The curio-shop owner told us that these knives were Jupiter knives, that they would channel the energy of Jupiter into a man. And on the day I was born, Jupiter was in the constellation Aquarius, so this knife fits me.”

  Hiram grunted. “And was Lloyd Preece also born when…Jupiter was in Aquarius?”

  “No, his knife had a different sign. One that matched his birth. Taurus, I think.”

  All the talk of stars had Hiram thinking of the widow Artemis and her alluring walk. The more he tried to shut out the images, the harder they pushed to get back in.

  “And the Hebrew?” Hiram wished he could read languages, too. Especially Hebrew.

  “Adonay on one side, that means Lord. And Elohim on the other. According to the shopkeeper.”

  Michael peered closely at the signs and characters. Knowing Hiram’s son, he’d memorize every marking.

  “You two wear these daggers to church?”

  Gudmundson laughed. “We used to. Used to joke we needed to go back up to the curio shop and get one for the second counselor, too, that’s Jeff Webb, until he asked us to stop teasing him about astrology. It made him uncomfortable. So for church, I leave the knife home.”

  The sheriff sighed. “So, Preece’s knife is missing, and it might be the murder weapon. And it looks just like this one, only one of the signs will apparently be different.”

  The sheriff was talking an awful lot about his investigation. But it suggested that he didn’t think Hiram was the culprit, and Hiram found he was curious.

  “Any idea who would want to kill him?” Hiram asked. “And why the killer would use his own knife?”

  The sheriff backed up and stood against his desk, which was sparse. He crossed his arms. “That’s just it. Lloyd was well liked. He was one of the most important people in this town, everybody’s extra grandpa, people loved him. He helped with money, with property, hell, the Udalls have been squatting on his land for years now, and they aren’t alone. I can’t imagine who would want to hurt him.”

  Michael gave the knife back to Gudmund. “I’m no expert, but whoever took Mr. Preece’s knife is probably the one who killed him.”

  “Feels like an intimate crime,” Hiram said. “Killing a man like that with his own favorite knife.”

  “Or a crime of opportunity,” Jack Del Rose suggested. “If someone got mad at him, mad enough to kill, maybe that was just the weapon to hand.”

  “He had it when I saw him yesterday,” Gudmund sheathed the dagger. “Clem and I left his place, just fine in the afternoon, and then we headed on over to the dance at the Woodmen’s last night.”

  The sheriff exhaled. “I think it was a stranger. Someone passing through, or anyway, someone who isn’t really part of the community.”

  Hiram feared where this was headed. He kept quiet.

  Michael didn’t. “Sheriff, me and Pap found the body. I hope we aren’t suspects, but you’re sure welcome to search our campsite for that knife.”

  “You’re not,” the sheriff agreed. “No, son, I was thinking of some other folks. Like those men in their truck you helped, Bishop.”

  Gudmund shook his head. “Maybe…but I wouldn’t think so. Don Pout is keeping them busy.”

  Del Rose didn’t pause. “Well, there’s two other outsiders out in that desert. For one, we have that preacher hobo, Earl Bill Clay, who’s off his rocker.”

  “Preacher Bill knew Lloyd, all right,” Gudmundson said thickly. “Lloyd gave him money and food, and I warned him not to. You encourage someone like that, he’ll keep coming back, and the day you tell him no, he might hit you on the head and take what he wants. Much safer to let the church feed him. But Lloyd was also generous, generous to a fault.”

  “Or maybe Lloyd didn’t tell the preacher no,” the sheriff suggested. “Maybe the Reverend Majestic is simply insane. Too much sun, too much Jesus, maybe he saw one of the demons of the W.P.A. in Lloyd, or thought he did.” Del Rose grinned.

  Gudmundson grunted. “If I had to choose someone, a stranger, it would be that uranium fellow. I know Howard Balsley says he’s the genuine article, but the prospector isn’t right in the head, ei
ther.”

  “Too much sun and science?” Michael asked.

  Del Rose laughed so hard both eyes shut. “That’s a bright boy you have, Hiram. The truth about the prospector might be a bit simpler than all that. He drinks. He’s spent a night or two in my jail because when he hits the sauce, he’s not himself. He might have gone up to Lloyd, wanting the mineral rights on a stretch of desert, and when Lloyd refused, the prospector killed him. Took off with the murder weapon.”

  “What about the missing silver from the 1923 robbery?” Michael asked. “Could Mr. Preece have found it? Or maybe the prospector found it, Davison Rock, that’s his name. They might have fought over it. My dad and I met him yesterday, drunk as a skunk.”

  Del Rose chuckled, and Gudmundson harrumphed.

  Del Rose hitched up his belt. “Lloyd wouldn’t pick a fight over money. He was one of the richest men around these parts. Now if the prospector got tired of the uranium game, and he thought Lloyd was rich, he might have gone to Lloyd to get the silver. Or maybe Preacher Bill gave in to his own greed. Now, that might be a motive. You talk to anyone for five minutes, and they’ll say Lloyd Preece is rich because he found that missing silver.”

  “But we know that’s not true,” Gudmundson said quickly.

  Hiram stuck his hand in his pocket, feeling the bloodstone. It lay inert and calm.

  Del Rose nodded. “No, it isn’t true. For all sorts of reasons.”

  “It’s not Three Toe,” Michael said. “We know that for sure.”

  Del Rose tittered. “So you’ve heard of our Three Toe? Why, that wolf was caught a long time ago. Measured eight feet long. I saw the pelt myself and checked out the paws as well.”

  “New movie at the Ides,” Gudmund said. “Werewolf of London. I ain’t seen it myself. Maybe it’s the ghost of Three Toe come back as a man?”

  “I saw it in Lehi,” Michael said. “There weren’t any ghosts. Just a strange herb in Tibet. It’s a metaphor for our need to fight our baser instincts. It was pretty good.”