Stone Butterfly

by James D. Doss

Moon swallowed a smirk. That’ll be the day.

  This issue seemingly settled, they abandoned the comfort of the Ford Motor Company product, approached the dreary dwelling.

  Marilee Attatochee was waiting, her hand clenched on the cold porcelain doorknob. As Moon’s knuckles made the first rap, she jerked the door open, looked the slender, seven-foot Ute up and then down and then up again, all the way from the horsehide boots to his John B. Stetson hat. He’s just as good-looking as the last time I saw him. When the object of her close inspection was about to open his mouth, she barked: “You don’t have to introduce yourself—I know who you are.”

  Moon returned a blank stare.

  He don’t remember when we met at Provo and Mary’s wedding in Ignacio. But Marilee remembered the Ute. And his cranky aunt Daisy. Not wishing to refer to that ancient history, she said: “Sarah talks about you all the time.” The tough little woman shot a suspicious glance at his long-legged, well-dressed companion who looked as if she’d just stepped off the cover of Glamour magazine. “Who’s this?”

  Charlie Moon removed his expensive black hat. Opened his mouth—

  After having waited for an eternity that lasted barely one tick-tock of the clock, the woman at his side forgot her solemn Vow of Silence, and took up the slack in the conversation.

  “I’m Special Agent McTeague, Miss Attatochee.” She presented her ID. “I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and—”

  “FBI!” Marilee flung her arms in the air. “I don’t believe it—some mean old white man gets killed and my little cousin runs away from home and all of a sudden it’s a federal case?”

  “I’m not here on official business,” McTeague said. Not yet. “I’m a friend of Mr. Moon, who happens to be a Southern Ute tribal investigator, and as you know, Sarah Frank is—”

  “Sure, I know—half Ute, on her daddy’s side.” The Papago woman stepped back into the dusty, musty gloom of her ten-by-twelve living room. “You want to come inside?”

  They did. And did.

  The air scintillated with a curiously incongruous mix of Glade air freshener and ingrained-in-the-carpet cigarette smoke. In a corner, a television with the sound turned down displayed a snowy picture of a chubby middle-aged man concealed behind a painted clown’s face. The program was Uncle Jiggs’ Children’s Hour. Uncle Jiggs was mouthing words to the kiddies: “…so stay tuned for good ol’ Bugs Bunny and that nasty Daffy Duck.”

  Marilee pointed to a worn-out couch that was swaybacked as a thirty-year-old plow horse, the bile-green tint of that fluid that passes for blood in grasshopper veins.

  Without a qualm, her visitors seated themselves on it. There was a protesting groan, an ominous creaking, a slipping toward the middle which brought them closer together.

  The woman of the house plopped down on the best piece of furniture in the room, which happened to be a cushioned maple rocking-chair. Staring at the astonishingly pretty, immaculately well-groomed white woman, Marilee unconsciously reached up to smooth her unkempt hair. When that task proved impossible, she thought it best to divert attention from her so-called hairdo, and did this by addressing a curt remark to Charlie Moon. “I know why you’re here.”

  Though the reason for their visit seemed obvious enough, the sworn officers of the law waited to hear from the self-proclaimed oracle.

  As if attempting to see a path into the future, Marilee examined the back of her hand, where a network of blue veins looped over taut tendons. She stole a glance at the Ute. “You want me to tell you where you can find Sarah.” You figure you can sneak her back to the res, stash her out in the boonies where nobody’ll find her, not even this slick-as-snail-spit FBI agent. “But I don’t know where my cousin is.” She made the hand into a fist, erasing the tangled map. “Sooner or later, Sheriff Popper and his deputies will track her down. And when they find her, they’ll turn her over to the juvenile authorities and they’ll lock Sarah up ’til…” Her words trailed off like tiny sparrow tracks in a twilight snowfall.

  As if he had read the Papago woman’s thoughts, Charlie Moon wondered why he was here. To find Sarah—spirit her off to some safe hiding place? No. That was not an option. If, by some off chance he did encounter the missing teenager, he would be duty-bound to turn her over to the legally constituted authority. Which, in this jurisdiction, was either Sheriff Popper or the state police. After turning the question over in his mind, the tribal investigator concluded that he was in Tonapah Flats so Sarah would not be without a friend. A friend who would comfort her, listen to her side of the story. After which he would get Oscar Sweetwater on the telephone, tell the tribal chairman straight-out that the tribe had an obligation to hire a top-notch attorney to defend Provo Frank’s daughter. And if the penny-pinching old politician balks, I’ll go to see Walter Price, who is the smartest lawyer west of the Pecos. He remembered that Price was also one of the most expensive. But I’ll work something out. Even if it takes the rest of my life to pay it off. Even if I have to put up the Columbine for collateral.

  The fact that neither of these people had said a word since entering her house was beginning to nag at the feisty Papago woman. A terrible thought occurred to her. “What is it—you come to tell me they’ve found Sarah? Is she—” Both fists clenched. “—all right?”

  Again, McTeague responded before the Ute could get a word past his lips. “As of a few minutes ago, when we were conferring with Sheriff Popper, Miss Frank had not been found. And we have no reason to believe she is not perfectly fine.” Of course, for all we know she could be perfectly dead.

  “Oh, thank you.” It’s so nice to talk to another woman. “It’s such a relief—to know Sarah’s not hurt.” Or dead. “Or anything.”

  Realizing that she had gained a small advantage, the federal agent continued: “Charlie—Mr. Moon and I—are merely here to see if we can be of any help.” She paused to smile at the missing girl’s older cousin, and used sleight of hand to plant the first seed. “Is there anything at all we can do for you?”

  As Marilee Attatochee thought about it, her brow furrowed into the sort of dark ridges that gaunt, overalled Tennessee sharecroppers used to plow behind sweating mules. “Once they find her, they’ll put her in the lockup for sure. Can you make sure she gets a really good lawyer?”

  As the fed was about to assure her on this point, Moon finally found his tongue. “Consider it done.”

  The Papago woman raised an eyebrow at the taciturn man. “So. You’re an Indian who can talk. I was beginning to think maybe you was a mute Ute.”

  “By tribal law—you can look it up—Section Sixteen, Paragraph Twelve, ‘Women and children can talk all they want, but adult males are limited to twelve dozen words a day.’” Moon grinned. “I save ’em up ’til I have something important to say.”

  “Sarah thinks you’re the finest man in the whole world.” Marilee looked him straight in the eye. “But she’s just a dumb kid—what does she know?”

  “Hmmm.”

  The Papago woman actually smiled. “Did that count as a word?”

  He shook his head, presumably to conserve precious syllables.

  “I don’t think them Ute laws apply here in Utah.” Marilee made this observation with a judicial air. “This is your chance to run off at the mouth.”

  He mulled this over. “You might be right.”

  The special agent decided on the direct approach. “Miss Attatochee, have you had any communication whatever from Miss Frank since Mr. Silver was assaulted?”

  “You can call me Marilee.” She began to rock in the maple chair. “And no, I ain’t heard a single word from Sarah.” Miss Attatochee pointed at the floor. “For all I know she could be holed up under the house with the pack-rats and polecats”—she aimed the finger at the ceiling—“or up in the loft with the vampire bats,” she rocked faster, “or she could be up yonder in Montana or even in Canada. But if you was to ask me—” She was interrupted by the sound of tires on gravel. The slam of a pickup door. The crun
ch of boots on the white stones. A thumpity-thump on the door.

  Marilee frowned and asked herself: “Now who could that be?” Wanting an answer, she got up to see. Which required looking out the window.

  Chapter Nineteen

  John Law Comes Calling

  It was Sheriff Popper who had pecked his knuckles on Marilee Attatochee’s door. He offered the face in the window a bashful grin, raised his hand in a halfhearted salute.

  Marilee opened the door, fixed him with a mean-as-a-scalded-pit-bull grimace. And just in case he hadn’t noticed her teeth, she barked: “What’re you doin’ here, you beady-eyed old son-of-a-bachelor?”

  The lawman’s grin faded. “Well, I just thought I’d drop by and—”

  “When I loaned you that snapshot of Sarah and her cat, you never told me you’d give it to them TV vultures.” She pointed at the antique RCA console. “Now almost ever time I turn the tube on, I see my poor little cousin—and hear them so-called news reporters talking like Sarah was wanted for some kinda horrible crime.”

  After having subsided to a barely noticeable tremor, the throbbing ache in Popper’s head started quaking in the neighborhood of seven-point-six on the Afflictor Scale. He rubbed at the patch of bandage above his eye. “I’m sorry, Marilee—but I was elected to do a job for the county—”

  “If you run again, you damn well won’t get my vote!”

  “—and I hafta do it the way I see fit.” He tried to look past her. “Mind if I come in for a minute?”

  She cranked her malevolent glare up to gale force. This had about as much effect as throwing marshmallows at a brick wall. “Oh, no. I don’t mind. In fact, of all the Tonapah County sheriffs we got, you’re just about my favorite.”

  The stream of abuse rippled over the thick-skinned old alligator’s back. Knowing it would annoy her, he tipped his hat, winked. “Why thank you, ma’am.”

  As he mounted the sandstone-slab doorstep, the lady of the house stepped aside and tried again. “Maybe you’d like a cup of gourmet coffee I made with hand-ground Hawaiian beans—and how about a big piece of strawberry shortcake with whipped cream?”

  “Oh, I’ll take a rain check on the shortcake—strawberries make me break out all over.” Ned Popper removed his hat, waved it at Moon and McTeague. “And I’ve already had my limit of coffee for the day. But if you’ve got a cold bottle of soda pop, I wouldn’t say no to that.”

  Marilee muttered something rude under her breath, stomped off to the kitchen.

  Easing himself into Marilee’s fine rocking chair, Popper addressed the out-of-towners on the couch. “I hope you folks don’t mind me dropping in.”

  Speaking on behalf of Moon and herself, McTeague made it clear that they did not mind in the least.

  “After you’re through talkin’ to Marilee, I figured you two might like to take a run over to Ben Silver’s house.”

  McTeague appreciated the local lawman’s invitation, and said as much.

  “After this business is finished, let ’em go ahead and elect someone else—I’m getting tired of this line of work.” The old man closed his eyes, rocked back and forth. “After I hang up my spurs, this is how I’ll spend every day of the week.” He exhaled a deep, satisfied sigh. “Except for now and again, when I’ll bait me a hook, drop it in Plumbob Creek.” And while the bobber drifts on downstream, I’ll lean my head on a willow stump and drift off to sleep. The rocking chair went squeak-squeak. Then slower. Squeak…squeak…

  The disgruntled woman in the kitchen picked this tranquil moment to begin banging percolator parts. Pots and pans. A coffee can. The cacophony suggested a demented drummer.

  The sheriff sighed. “What that feisty little spark plug needs is a day off to rest.” I’d be glad to take her fishing.

  Presently, Marilee Attatochee appeared with a tray, plopped it on a wicker coffee table. She described what could be clearly seen: “There’s two cups of coffee and a Diet Coke for Ned. And some packets of sugar and non-dairy creamer. And a box of little sugar donuts.”

  Special Agent McTeague took a cracked mug of the black liquid, thanked her host, performed a discreet one-sip taste test. This is really excellent.

  Reading her face, Marilee said: “I put half a dozen ground-up piñon nuts in every pot. And some little pieces of eggshell.”

  Ned Popper helped himself to the carbonated beverage. “Thank you kindly, Marilee.” He took a fizzy sip, presented a sly grin. “Come next election, you wouldn’t actually vote against me?”

  Glowering at the man who had taken her rightful place in the rocking chair, the registered voter seated herself on a stool. “I may run against you.”

  The sheriff winced at the threat.

  Noticing that no one among those present was showing any interest in the tiny tire-shaped pastries, Charlie Moon took the box of Little Debbie’s finest and balanced it on his knee. He also helped himself to all the packets of sugar, emptied them into his coffee cup.

  Halfway through the soft drink, the sheriff cleared his throat. “There’s no word yet on Sarah.” He dared not meet the Papago woman’s stony gaze. “But I wouldn’t worry. She’ll turn up.” He rolled the aluminum can between his hands. “And soon as she does, I’ll make sure—”

  This statement was interrupted by a scritchy-scratchy sort of noise, such as beady-eyed vermin are apt to make.

  The Intruder

  Marilee and her guests sat very still, listened.

  The sounds came from the yonder end of the shotgun house.

  The was a rusty creaking as the doorknob turned.

  The Papago woman and the three officers of the law waited.

  A sinister screee-eeek as the back door opened on rusty hinges. As it closed, a metallic clickety-clatch of the latch.

  Floorboards squeaked as footsteps approached.

  A pause, as if the intruder was having second thoughts. Then third ones.

  Then, more squeaks on the oak floor.

  Marilee got to her feet, the expression on her face speaking louder than words. She knew who this was.

  Alphonse Harper approached the dimly lit parlor blinking, muttering to himself. “Tubby must be off somewheres.”

  Now her words were heard: “No she ain’t!”

  To say that he jumped two inches off the floor and swallowed half his tongue would be but a slight exaggeration. He also made a sound which can only be described thusly: “Eeeow-wah!” When Mr. Harper had regained some small portion of his composure, he frowned at his girlfriend. “Whatta you mean—scarin’ me half to death?”

  “Hah!” she replied, and added for clarification: “Halfway is not what I had in mind.”

  The sometimes man-about-the-house noticed the other visitors. Sheriff Popper, with whom he had from time to time had “professional encounters,” was no stranger to Al Harper. He jerked a thumb at the strangers. “Who’re they?”

  Marilee Attatochee parried this inquiry with one of her own. “Where’ve you been—hanging out with your boozed-up, half-wit friends?”

  Being a man with considerably more pride than substance (as quite a few women believe is common among the hairy-legged gender) Alphonse Harper straightened his back, gave the short, stumpy woman a comical, cross-eyed look that was intended to be stern. “I comes and goes as I please.” He hiccuped. “So don’t you be callin’ on me to do any…any…” The word he was vainly searching for was “explaining.”

  The Papago woman caught a whiff of his breath. “You’ve been drinking.”

  Mr. Harper attempted to hold his breath as he replied, which is well-nigh impossible. “I ain’t not.”

  Though not a grammarian of the first water, Miss Attatochee had her standards. “You ain’t what?”

  As the fascinated audience watched, her boyfriend began to wilt. “Well, maybe a beer or two.”

  “You stink like a six-pack or two.” In preparation for laying down the law, she squared her shoulders. “You want to drink yourself pie-eyed, that’s your business, Al—but
don’t come home drunk. And buy what you drink with your own cash.” She pointed in the general direction of the kitchen. “Don’t go stealing my hard-earned money out of my toolbox.”

  His good eye bulged with righteous indignation. “Did not.”

  “Yes you did.”

  Another hiccup. “No I didn’t. Swear on my momma’s gravy—” No, that wasn’t what I meant to say…

  “Then who took it?”

  There are times when a man should keep his mouth shut. Or, if he is bound to speak, avoid outright lying. The petty thief would have been better off if he had simply admitted to the petty theft, thrown himself on the mercy of the court. But Al did what came naturally. “Sarah stole it.”

  The tough little woman seemed to expand in all directions. Until she was approximately the diameter of a fifty-five-gallon drum. A drum full of explosive material. “What did you say?”

  Mr. Harper did not notice the sign on the drum, which clearly warned of the DANGER of making sparks in the immediate vicinity. Indeed, he was of the opinion that this conversation was going his way. “Hells bells, it’s all over town—everybody in Tonapah Flats knows the kid’s a burglar.” He shrugged. “It was Sarah that took your piddlin’ eighteen dollars and sixty-five cents.”

  Neither Moon nor McTeague could suppress a smile.

  Ned Popper opened his mouth and laughed out loud.

  Considerably offended that the sheriff had dare cast aspersion on his well-honed falsehood, Harper gave the gray-haired old copper a haughty look. “Well, she did.”

  Marilee Attatochee had a strange look in her eye. It was one that her boyfriend had never seen there before. The expression was not merely one of unabated hatred. Not simply white-hot anger. Nor could it be summed up as signaling a serious intent to do him grievous bodily harm. It was more like a combination of all three.

  Enhancing the illusion, her voice was calmness itself. “That does it.”

  He grinned at the little woman. “Does what, Poopsie?”

  She pointed at the back door. “Go.”

  The brevity of her command confused him; this verb needed a subject. “Where?”