Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

  The whisper tickled his ear, which reflexively flattened against his head.

  She didn’t put the animal down until they were at the culvert under the road. She knew that during flash floods, the big concrete pipe would fill with a roaring torrent of muddy water. I hope it don’t rain tonight. The girl scanned the darkening sky, saw a few stars prickling through the fabric of night. She crouched, made her way halfway along the circular cement hallway, laid her thin body down in a pile of brush and trash, made up her mind to stay wide awake. As she immediately drifted off to a light sleep, Sarah’s mind shifted to dark thoughts. Maybe I won’t ever wake up. Maybe there will be a big storm upstream, and the water will come roaring down here and carry me away to another…

  When she did awaken, Mr. Zig-Zag was mewing, licking her nose with his sandpaper tongue. Having no timepiece, Sarah did not know that it was well past midnight, but at the end of the gray tunnel she could see bright moonlight. I must have slept a long time. She got up, brushed leaves and dirt off her skirt.

  After a short walk on Tulane Road, she cut off behind the Shamrock station, stubbed her toe on something she could not see. The moon passed behind a thundercloud, casting the back of the gas station into inky darkness, but the business side was lit up like noonday. At this small hour, there was a single vehicle at the pumps—a massive green pickup, with an equally green horse trailer attached. Sarah took a deep breath, summoned up all her courage. She emerged from the shadows, pretended to be interested in the Coke machine. The big, rough-looking man who owned the green pickup was pushing a credit card into a slot, selecting 87 octane, mumbling that “the damn gas prices just keep goin’ up and up.” His plump wife was headed for the ladies’ room, calling back: “Now, Buddy, don’t you drive off and leave me, like you did up in Reno last week when you thought I was in the backseat asleep!”

  Busy grumbling about money-grubbing Arabs and big-oil price gougers, Buddy gave no sign that he’d heard a single word his helpmate had said. Which was his normal mode of behavior.

  Sarah noted that the pickup was pointed toward the interstate.

  Once it got there, it could turn either east or west, which was a chance she was willing to take. But she had noticed the Colorado license plate on the pickup—and a little chrome logo on the tailgate proclaimed that the vehicle had been purchased from the La Plata Ford Dealership in Durango. Besides that, this man and his wife had been in Reno last week. And Sarah—who loved to study maps—knew that Reno was in Nevada, and Nevada was to the west of Utah. So they must be going east, back to Colorado—probably to someplace not far from Durango, and that town was very near the Southern Ute reservation. And aside from her knowledge of geography, the runaway felt certain these weary-looking people were going home. Despite her few hours of sleep, Sarah was still very weary, and if she had a home, that was certainly where she would go. And stay there forever and ever.

  While the gas was flowing into the pickup tank, Buddy went into the station to purchase candy bars and beef jerky.

  Sarah picked up her cat, approached a few steps closer.

  A fierce-looking black horse with a white star on her forehead was looking out of the trailer. She eyed Sarah and her cat, as if to say, I know what you’re up to. You’ll never find a place where you can hide. They’ll find you and put a rope around your neck and hang you on a tree limb while you choke and kick. That’s what they’ll do. And if you try to get in here with me, I’ll stomp you to death.

  That is what Sarah imagined the horse would say, if horses could talk. But she was beyond being afraid of the big mare. After what she had been through during the past few hours, she was not afraid of anything—except getting caught by the police. In the glare of ten kilowatts of overhead lights, she walked up to the rear of the horse trailer and looked the sole occupant straight in the eye. “Me and Mr. Zig-Zag are getting in there with you. And if you step on me—or hurt my cat,” she made a small fist and showed it to the placid beast, “I’ll punch you right in the eye!”

  The mare—who adored children and cats—responded with a friendly whinny.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Fed

  FBI special agent Lila Mae McTeague parked her car in the reserved space the Bureau had leased from the Cattleman’s Bank, opened the rear door to the narrow stairwell, clicked her heels up the twenty-four steps, entered the long hallway, counted off five paces to her corner office door. The recently installed electronic combination lock displayed three light-emitting diodes, all in a row. If during her absence the dial had been turned as much as six degrees in either direction, the orange light would be on. If the microwave motion detector inside the office had been tripped, a red light would be flashing. The high-tech lock was showing a comforting green; all was well. She twirled the dial four times to enter the combination, pressed the black button at the hub, turned the shiny brass doorknob, entered her two hundred square feet of work space. The time was precisely seven A.M.

  McTeague was one of the federal government’s most dedicated and efficient employees. Within minutes, she had called the Durango field office to notify a computer of her arrival in the “temporary” Granite Creek office, made a pot of coffee, checked sixteen e-mails, trashed all but three. At half past the hour, she logged onto the Bureau’s official site, typed in her password, clicked on the DAILY CRIME REPORT icon. When the window opened, she went to the Region menu, clicked on Southwest. The first report was on last night’s Indian casino robbery just north of Santa Fe. The second described a kidnapping of a woman in Flagstaff. McTeague had heard reports on the ten o’clock news, and gave the briefings a quick scan. It was the third report that piqued her interest.

  Dept of Justice RKK 2006/6-21/99803AADC

  Prelim Rpt 2:22 AM Edt—To Be Updated This PM

  Page 1 of 2 Pages

  HOMICIDE/ASSAULT/BURGLARY

  TONAPAH FLATS, UT

  JURISDICTION: TONAPAH FLATS SHERIFF’S OFFICE

  CONTACT: SHERIFF NED POPPER [SEE CONTACT INFO P 2]

  VICTIM/HOMICIDE: BENJAMIN SILVER/ WH MALE/ AGE 74

  (NO PHOTO/NO SS)

  VICTIM/ASSAULT: NED POPPER/ WH MALE/ AGE 67

  (NO PHOTO/NO SS)

  SUSPECT: SARAH FRANK

  FEMALE NAT AMERICAN/ S-UTE/PAPAGO[TOHONO O’OTAM]

  [JUV]/AGE 14

  (NO PHOTO/NO SS/NO PRINTS)

  APPARENT MOTIVE: TO BE DETERMINED

  SUSPECT’S CURRENT LOCATION: UNKNOWN

  SUSPECT LAST SEEN: TONAPAH FLATS UT/SILVER RESIDENCE

  SUSPECT RELATIVES:

  FATHER: PROVO FRANK [S UTE/DECEASED]

  MOTHER: MARY [MN: ATTATOCHEE] FRANK [PAPAGO/DECEASED]

  SIBLINGS: NONE

  GRANDPARENTS: NO INFO

  COUSIN: MARILEE ATTATOCHEE/FEMALE NAT AMERICAN/

  PAPAGO[TOHONO O’OTAM]/ TONAPAH FLATS UT

  SUSPECT FRIENDS: NO INFO

  SUSPECT CONTACTS: JUV S FRANK HAS BEEN LIVING WITH MARILEE ATTATOCHEE (SEE RELATIVES—ABOVE)

  McTeague scanned the second page, then read the terse report two more times, hoping to glean something beyond the sparse information contained in the few words. There is something familiar about the father’s name. She selected the DEPT JUSTICE Database menu, clicked on General Search, typed PROVO FRANK into the SEARCH rectangle, watched a miniature hourglass fill with electronic sand. The file, including color images, was 155 megabytes. She transferred it to her hard disc. I’ll read it later. What I want to know right now is… She typed in CHARLES MOON, initiated the document search. More sand sifting through the hourglass, then—Bingo!

  The FBI agent downloaded several other confidential files, made a call to a talkative contact in the Bureau’s Salt Lake office, another to the Tonapah Flats Sheriff’s Office. After this flurry of early morning activity, the lady sat behind her desk, mulling over what she had learned. There was a final call to make. She hesitated.

  When the telephone interrupted his morning routine, Charlie Moon was washing his breakfas
t dishes, singing “Good Morning, Sun” loudly and slightly off-key. He strode down the hall, into the parlor, picked up the instrument on the third ring. “Columbine Ranch.” The voice that vibrated the membrane in his right ear canal made him smile.

  “Charlie, I’m sorry to call so early, but I picked up something in the Bureau’s Daily Crime Report that might interest you.”

  He leaned against the chinked-log wall. “Aside from cattle rustling, why would I be interested in crime?”

  “Well, for one thing—your name popped up.”

  “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it. And even if I did, I’ve got a dozen hired hands that’ll swear I was playing straight poker with all fifteen of ’em when it—”

  “Shut up and listen.”

  “When you sweet-talk me like that, I can’t help but do whatever you say.”

  Agent McTeague read the report verbatim. After completing the recitation, she waited. Nothing.

  The Ute was gazing through the parlor window. All the joy of the morning had slipped away. I should have kept in touch with Provo’s little daughter. Made sure she was all right. How many years has it been since I last saw her—

  “Charlie—are you there?”

  “I am.” He wished he were not.

  “When I saw the father’s name, I realize you were acquainted with him.”

  “Provo Frank was my close friend.” The Ute sounded older than his years.

  “I see.” That wasn’t in the file. “And his daughter Sarah—I assume you must have met her.”

  He nodded at the woman who was some forty-odd miles away in Granite Creek. “Yeah.”

  From the leaden tone, McTeague knew the answer to her next question. “I suppose you’ll be going to Tonapah Flats.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mind if I come along?”

  “I don’t mind,” Moon mumbled.

  The highly organized federal employee checked the time, estimated how quickly she could shut down the computer, lock the file cabinet and hall door, get to her Ford sedan. “I’ll be there in fifty-five minutes. An hour at the outside.”

  “Don’t break any speed limits, McTeague.” There’s no big hurry. Whatever Sarah’s done is history. Charlie Moon hung up the telephone, hung his head, stared at the varnished oak floor as if he had never seen it before. The long-legged man cocked his right boot. His earnest intention was to kick a wicker trash basket across the parlor. He hesitated. That would be a dumb thing to do. And I don’t want to start off the day by doing something dumb. He kicked it. Hard.

  Charlie Moon called his elderly aunt. Told Daisy Perika where he was headed. And why.

  As her nephew unloaded his bad news, the tribal elder listened with uncharacteristic patience. I knew it. Sarah has killed that old man. Making no reference to her series of bad dreams, Daisy muttered: “Soon as you know something, call me.”

  Those privileged few who are accustomed to riding in the comfort of a luxury automobile, such as a Rolls-Royce Silver Seraph or Mercedes-Benz SL65 AMG, may be interested to know that designers of horse trailers do not invest excessive attention to the issue of suspension. Indeed, these conveyances are apt to bounce and buck like some of the more spirited equine stock transported therein. Furthermore, the interiors tend to smell a certain way, and it is not like the sweet essence of wild roses in late May, but more like the terminal end of a herbivorous quadruped which processes hay—despite the fact that horse trailers are usually well ventilated. This is relevant, because the early morning hours of Sarah Frank’s journey were bitterly cold. It was the most awful ride she had ever had in her life. When the green pickup finally pulled to a stop, the girl was very angry at having been so abused for so many hours. Sarah also harbored serious doubts that she would ever be able to walk again, but using the horse’s tail for assistance, she got up onto stiff legs, made her way to the rear of the stinky trailer, unlatched the double gate. She paused only long enough to address the host passenger. “I’m sorry for saying I’d punch you in the eye. I didn’t really mean it. It’s just that…” She sighed. “Well, yesterday was a really bad day for me.” She patted the mare’s neck. “Good-bye.” I wish you were my horse.

  As she latched the steel gate, the owner of the pickup and trailer and horse happened by. Maintaining his customary form of speech, Mr. Bigbee yelled, “Hey, Half-Pint! What’re you doin’ there—messin’ around with my livestock?”

  Since yesterday morning, Sarah was a changed girl. Bold as a week-old colt, she gazed brazenly at the big rancher, pointed at the black mare. “Is she for sale?”

  Lapsing into a thoughtful silence, he gave the unlikely buyer a cursory once-over. “She might be—for the right price.” The rough old horse trader snorted. “How much you got in your sock?”

  Sarah heard her mouth say: “You mean money?”

  “No, kid—I mean pop-bottle caps.” He grinned at her puzzled expression. “A-course I mean money. So how much diñero d’you want to spend on a bronc?”

  The girl in the tattered dress smiled hopefully. “Would five hundred dollars be enough?”

  Like you got five hundred bucks. “Not while there’s a breath a life in my body, Small-Fry.” He jerked his chin to indicate the animal under discussion. “I would not even think a lettin’ go a this fine piece a horse-flesh for a dime less than…” He scratched at the stubble of two-day-old beard. “Than twelve hundred.”

  Sarah’s voice was hoarse. “Twelve hundred dollars?”

  “No, Missy. Twelve hundred porky-pine ears.” Highly amused with his inimitable wit, “Buddy” Hank Bigbee leaned backward like a willow in a hard wind, let out a brayish “Haw-haw-haw.” Straightening his spine, he glared at the girl. “Tell you what. You throw in that fleabag of a cat, I’ll knock off—maybe thirty-two cents from the price.” Another string of haw-haws. He also slapped his thigh, and tears rolled down his leathery cheeks.

  The girl’s dark eyes flashed. “Mr. Zig-Zag don’t have any fleas!”

  He regained just enough composure to reply: “Zig-Zag, huh? That’s a funny name for a cat.”

  Sarah was about to offer a response when Mrs. Bigbee showed up. The woman gave her husband The Look, which took all the wind out of his sails. “Buddy, are you teasin’ this sweet little girl?” The Look made it clear that he damn well better not be doing no such thing.

  The sly look slipped off Buddy’s face and down his collar. “Oh no, Sugar-Cake—I was just trying to close a deal.” He cleared his throat, pointed a wiener-sized finger at Sarah Frank. “Tillie, this kid wants to buy Clara Belle.”

  Tillie Bigbee shook her head at Sarah. “No you don’t, honey. That black mare is blind in her left eye and she’s had a bad stomach ever since she et a little piece a bob-war that was in a bale a hay.” She shot a poisonous glance at her husband. “In fact, if’n Buddy here was to offer you a brand-new twenty-dollar bill to take Clara-B off’n his hands, you should laugh in his face.” To demonstrate how, Tillie “ha-ha’d” him a good one, then turned a motherly smile on the child. “What d’you want with a dumb ol’ horse anyway, sweetie? All they do is chomp hay and make manure and run up vet’nary bills.”

  “I could ride her.”

  What a little darlin’. “Ride her where?”

  Sarah hugged Mr. Zig-Zag closer to her chest. “Where are we now?”

  The middle-aged couple stared at the enigmatic girl.

  “I mean, what town?”

  The kindly woman frowned. “Why, we’re in Cortez.” Tillie added: “That’s in Colorado.”

  Knowing quite well where Cortez was, Sarah did a quick mental calculation. “I could ride Clara Belle all the way to Aunt Daisy’s home.” She estimated that it would take three days, maybe four.

  Tillie Bigbee found her smile again. “And where does your auntie live?”

  The runaway realized she had made a tactical blunder. “Oh, off that way.” She pointed to where the sun was coming up.

  Poor little thing. “Well, you find yourself a
good horse that can see outta both eyes. And don’t you ever buy nothin’ that walks from my husband—Buddy’d cheat his own mother in a horse trade, if she was still alive and had two dollars in her apron pocket.” Her Christian duty done, Tillie grabbed her man by the shirtsleeve. “C’mon, let’s go get some breakfast before I faint from hunger and fall back in it.”

  Much saddened, Sarah watched them go. I would have been glad to give five hundred dollars for Clara Belle, even if she don’t see too well. I could’ve rode her all the way to Aunt Daisy’s trailer-home and then into Spirit Canyon and up the trail onto Three Sisters Mesa… Her thoughts drifted back to a splendid world that had been filled to the brim with happy times.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Journey

  For the past hundred miles, Charlie Moon and Lila Mae McTeague had not exchanged a word. Time seemed to have stalled somewhere along the way, but of course it had not—the cosmic clock had not ceased to tick and tock, and the rocky third planet continued its ponderous spin—presenting that most compelling illusion of the sun sailing serenely across the pale blue sea of heaven. Having peaked at an infinitesimally brief high-noon appearance, the neighborhood star had fallen into that inevitable decline which is the destiny of even celestial luminaries. Aside from following the golden disk on its illusory westerly course, the Columbine Expedition did not participate in the deception. This solid chunk of reality had been assembled by skilled United Auto Workers at the sprawling, noisy plant in Wayne, Michigan. Driven by the silent Ute, powered by a throbbing eight-cylinder internal combustion engine, it rolled along on a hot ribbon of asphalt.