The Bone Man

by Vicki Stiefel

  I stood. “What?”

  “Are you nuts?” His lips had thinned in anger. “Do you forget what’s happened? The accident? The man who tried to kidnap you?”

  “Yes, but . . . we have to call this in. He shouldn’t be left here.”

  “We have to leave him, Tally.”

  “But . . .”

  “We must.”

  I bent again to Old Man and apologized, and for the first time noticed the burn marks surrounding one of the bullet holes. And Old Man’s face . . . I sat back, tried to see with my gut. Huh. His expression was one of . . . surprise. Yes, surprise.

  “I think he knew his killer,” I said. “Nothing’s out of place. Burn marks on his shirt. The killer got awfully close to him to leave those marks. And he’s got a look of surprise on his face, too.”

  “I think so, too.” Aric slapped his thighs. “C’mon.” He pulled at my arm.

  I tugged it away. “Not a chance without Coyote.”

  He slapped his hands on his hips. “I thought you had dead friends. That you wanted to find out who did them in.”

  I shook my head. “He’s alive, Aric. Coyote’s alive. He’s wearing a collar. I’ll get a leash and . . .”

  “He’ll bite your sorry ass.”

  “Screw off. He’ll die if we don’t take him with us.” I found the tiny pet section and took a leash. I also saw one of those bright blue cloth muzzles. I pulled off the tags and took that, too. Found a box of dog treats and ripped open the plastic top with my teeth.

  I realized I was hungry. Funny.

  A phone rang, and I jumped. I scanned the lowceilinged room. There, a pay phone. Ringing.

  “Answer it, why don’t you?” I said to Aric.

  He cocked his head. “Finally, a good idea out of you.”

  I crouched before Coyote. He growled, but didn’t make a move for me. I talked to him softly in what I hoped sounded soothing to his ears, about how we had to leave his master, that it would be okay, that we would take care of him. His growls subsided.

  I glanced up as Aric lifted the pay phone receiver off its cradle. “Yeah,” was all he said.

  He listened, nodded. “I’ll check. Hold on.”

  He was handling the call, and I turned back to Coyote. He let me scratch beneath his chin and between his ears, a favorite spot of Penny’s. “All right, boy, I’m going to snap this leash on, okay?”

  His golden eyes regarded me with a mixture of distrust and pain and hope. I fed him a soft treat and snapped on the leash. Okay. That went well.

  “This is not going to be fun, but I’ve got to do it, Coyote.” I sighed, began slipping the muzzle over his snout. He moved—lightning—and bit down on my hand.

  “Shit!”

  “Shut up!” Aric hissed, his hand over the receiver.

  Coyote whined, looked guilty, and licked my hand. Remorse. Didn’t help the pain. Crap. Crapcrapcrap. I shouldn’t have done anything until Aric was with me. Whatever. My own fault.

  I sat there, talking softly to Coyote, watching blood ooze from my hand, and waiting for Aric to hang up. I cursed my own stupidity. I imagined tetanus and rabies and other nasty stuff.

  “Oh, Coyote, we’re screwed.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Aric gently replaced the receiver on the wall pay phone.

  “Aric, I, um . . .”

  He didn’t see me as he approached. He sure didn’t hear me, either. Aric was all inside now, thinking about whatever he’d learned from the person on the other end of the phone.

  My hand throbbed, but he needed time to process the call. I sighed. Aric would shoot me once he saw what had happened to my hand. I could take it. The dog wasn’t at fault.

  I waited. Long minutes passed. Aric walked right by me and rounded the counter. He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like latex gloves. How handy. And how interesting. I sure wasn’t seeing the whole picture here.

  “Be right back,” I said as I headed for the sign that pointed with a metal arrow and said BATHROOM.

  Aric mumbled something, and I made my escape.

  The large bathroom-cum-storage room was piled with boxes to the ceiling. It appeared semi-clean, and its one stall seemed usable. I checked, used the facilities, then found soap and turned on the water. A few drops piddled out. That was it. Damn. I retrieved another bottle of spring water, lathered up, and rinsed. The whole process hurt like hell. Using the soap, I managed to tug off the ring Veda had given me from my pinkie finger and slip it onto my left hand. I wasn’t thrilled about the swelling.

  “Shitshitshit.” My hand hurt like the dickens. I rinsed again, toweled dry with a new Handi Wipe, sprayed on a ton of Bactine, and Band-Aided the site of the tooth marks. Who knew where Coyote’s mouth had been. I sure didn’t need an infection right then. Rabies? Tetanus? Absurd. I knew I was up on my tetanus shots. And how many people got rabies nowadays?

  What had Aric found out? And why would a Zuni be carrying a pair of latex gloves in his pocket? Oh, there were lots of mysteries here.

  I punched out Hank’s number on my phone. It went directly to voicemail. I left him my new cell number, told him where I was and who I was with, and then I dialed Carmen at the restaurant.

  The phone bleeped once, twice . . .

  BLAM! Right here. A gunshot. Like thunder.

  I found my pepper spray, started to run.

  Hank’s voice in my ear stopped me.

  Are you nuts, woman? Bullets trump pepper spray. Hide, then help.

  Another shot. Different gun? Shit.

  Hide, then help.

  Did Aric have a gun? I couldn’t remember.

  I flicked off the bathroom light, ran to the stall, closed the door that damnably creaked. I wanted to lock it. I shouldn’t. If someone came in, saw the door shut tight, they’d know.

  I hung my purse over the back hook. It weighted the door enough to mostly close it.

  I pocketed my pepper spray, and cradling my bad hand, I hiked myself onto the toilet seat. I saw stars. My hand looked worse. It definitely felt worse.

  Quiet. I had to get quiet. And calm. Yes, calm. Crouched atop the toilet seat, I listened.

  No sounds from outside the bathroom. But that meant nothing. A pause in the action.

  Was this right? Should I blaze out of there? What? I chuckled. Pepper spray at the ready? Oh, yeah, that would . . .

  The bathroom door creaked open.

  I swallowed. My legs were going numb, my hand throbbing, my face covered in sweat that was starting to drip down my forehead. The sweat of fear.

  Just breathe, Tal. Calm. Ohm.

  Lights on!

  A weakening bulb sputtered above my head.

  I wished my legs hadn’t gone numb. I wished . . . Screw it.

  I held the pepper spray in front of me, facing outward. I pictured some killer flinging open the door—bam!—me spraying him in the face.

  I closed my eyes, asked for strength.

  Footsteps snapping on the wood floor. The guy didn’t call out. Didn’t say a word.

  But he was getting closer.

  No, he was headed toward the sink, away from the stall.

  If I stood, maybe I could see him. Had to do it.

  I pushed my thighs, and somehow grew tall. I could almost see . . .

  The toilet seat wobbled.

  Shit, I mouthed. I got quiet. Very quiet.

  There, a guy, tall, stocky, black Stetson with a frickin’ feather in it. He turned, and I saw blood dripping down his arm. From Aric?. Where the hell was Aric?

  The seat wobbled again. Crap!

  I grabbed for the side of the stall, missed, started to keel forward. The guy swiveled around, gun at the ready, aimed at my head.

  I caught myself, sprayed the pepper.

  The guy was wearing glasses. He laughed as he pulled back the trigger of a huge revolver.

  “Don’t!”

  Bam!

  A patch of red blossomed on the guy’s left temple, and brains and b
one spewed from his right. His gun slid from his hand, and he crumpled to the floor.

  The pepper spray fell to the floor as I reached for the stall door. I gripped it tight, but my legs shook. I was afraid to see who’d fired the gun.

  I turned my head. “Aric!”

  “I wondered where the hell you went.” Arms crossed, hip jutting casually against the wall, he was the picture of the laconic Westerner.

  “Oh, God.” I held the stall door while I climbed down on wobbly legs. “I didn’t know you had a gun.”

  “Lucky for us I did.”

  Lucky? I doubted luck had anything to do with it. I stuttered in a breath.

  Aric put his arm around me. I leaned into him. It felt good. Solid. I needed solid at that moment.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Just peachy, Aric. Sure. We find a dead guy, and we get shot at. Who wouldn’t be?”

  He snorted. “Sarcasm is the refuge of the weak mind.”

  “Who said that one?”

  He shrugged. “Hell, I don’t know.”

  I chuckled. Hank always made me laugh, too. I missed him so much. “Are you okay? No bullet holes?”

  “Not a one.”

  I leaned against the sink, poured some of the bottled water on a wipe, and brushed it across my face.

  “Nice firearm.” He pointed to my pepper spray.

  “Speaking of sarcasm.” I walked around the dead man, whose blood was pooling onto the wood floor. I made sure to keep my swollen hand hidden. The dead man looked like a pretend cowboy. He wore a soul patch, a day’s growth of beard, and a tattoo of Lara Croft on his neck.

  “Go sit down,” Aric said.

  “In a sec. This guy . . . there’s something definitely off about him.”

  “That’s an understatement,” Aric said.

  The guy’s jeans were stonewashed and floppy-loose. I got a pen from Aric and used it to raise the bottom of the dead man’s jeans. His cowboy boots were tall, with lightning bolts carved on them. The soles were barely worn.

  “Pricey boots,” I said. “You’ve got the gloves. See who made the shirt?”

  “Who the fuck cares?”

  “It matters. And stop playing clueless with me. I know you’re just waiting until I leave the room to check him out. So don’t bother.”

  Aric said nothing, but crouched down beside the dead man. “The shirt. Huh. Patagonia.”

  “I thought I recognized it. I gave one like it to my boyfriend for Christmas. Anything in the guy’s pockets?”

  He searched. “Odd. Nothing.”

  “Well, then we’d better get going. Someone dropped him off here, and they’ll surely be back to retrieve him.”

  Dust billowed as we pulled away from the trading post. I kept looking over my shoulder, half expecting to be chased by a ghost. We’d left behind two dead men—a sad old one and one freshly shot. Coyote slept in the backseat. I wanted us to be safely away before I mentioned my hand, now throbbing like the dickens. Infection was never pretty. Maybe it was just a bone bruise. Coyote had gotten me but good.

  Something about the dead man back there . . . I’d seen him before. But not out here. I shook my head. Maybe I was imagining it. I didn’t remember anyone with a Lara Croft tattoo. Except . . .

  I caught a flicker out of the corner of my eye. Far across the flat desert landscape, another vehicle billowed sand.

  “See that?” I said. “Over to your right.”

  “Yeah. Five minutes ago.”

  “The driver’s going to be in for one nasty surprise.”

  He hooked a right at a four-way. We were pointed toward distant mountains, the names of which I didn’t know.

  “Or,” he said, “he’s a pal of the dead guy, and he’ll be hightailing it after us.”

  I couldn’t keep my eyes open, even though the truck smelled of unwashed dog and sweaty human, yet when I closed my eyes, all I kept seeing was Mr. Soul Patch level his gun at my face.

  That poor old man. A long life with an unhappy ending. I reached back and scratched Coyote with my good hand. He snorfled. Away from his master’s remains, he was more benign.

  The sun blazed my right cheek as I pressed it against the glass. Had to tell Aric about my hand. But I was beat.

  A little snoozle. That would do it. “I’m gonna nap.”

  “Go ahead.”

  A symphony. In my head. No, wait . . . I blinked my eyes open. Still playing. Of course.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the cell phone. An unknown number. I’d bet it was . . . “Hello?”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  Yup, Hank. God, I was glad. “New Mexico. On the way to Gallup. I’ve got—”

  “Don’t!” Aric grabbed the phone and threw it out the window.

  “What the hell!”

  “You can’t,” he said. “You can’t tell anyone. No talking. No nothing.”

  “You knew I bought the phone in Gallup. What’s your problem? My people back home are going to wonder. They’re going to come looking for me. That was my boyfriend.”

  “When we get to Gallup, you can call from a pay phone. I don’t trust anything.”

  “Do pay phones even exist anymore?”

  “When you got poor Indians, they do.”

  “Nasty,” I said. “If you weren’t an Indian yourself, I’d think you were prejudiced.”

  “I am.”

  I sank back in the seat. Hank was having a fit right about then. At least he knew I was in New Mexico. “How long until Gallup?”

  “Maybe forty minutes.”

  “Good. We need to take Coyote to the vet. Me, too.”

  “Is that some joke?” He flipped open a can of Red Bull and glugged.

  “No. I’m not feeling so hot.” My hand was swollen and black and blue and, unless I was mistaken, oozing puss. I held it up to show Aric, which made it throb even worse.

  “Holy shit.”

  I stretched, and everything ached. I blinked a couple of times to get myself in gear. I was still in the Land Rover, but we’d stopped at a gas station. A more modern one than the trading post, with not anywhere near its charm. When Aric slid back into the driver’s seat, he handed me a mug that said Allsup’s.

  “OJ,” he said. “Drink up.”

  I swallowed, and my throat burned. “I’m not very thirsty. I think I might have a fever.”

  “Drink anyway.”

  I took a sip, and acid would have been smoother. I reached for the door. “I’m going to get some water and call Hank.”

  He jammed the truck into gear and took off.

  “Dammit!” Even yelling hurt. My head spun, and I heaved twice, then puked on the floor. I could barely keep my eyes open.

  “We’re gonna take Coyote to a guy I know. You, too. No calls until then.”

  “Whatever you say.” My hand—a giant sausage. “We’d better get there pretty soon.”

  I awoke in a dark place. That was becoming a habit. Not a good one. My mouth tasted like furry yuck, and my hand still throbbed. I groped with my good hand for a light, found nothing. I sat up, and the black world twirled.

  “Damn.” I took a couple breaths. “Aric?”

  My good fingers crawled to my sausage hand, felt cotton or gauze. Ouch. Hmmm. Odd, but it felt different, maybe better?

  What the hell was I thinking?

  I had to get up, get out. I was way too dependent on Aric. I’d assumed he was a good guy. What if he wasn’t? What if I’d been fooled all along?

  Was I even thinking straight? Hell if I knew.

  My feet found my shoes, and I slipped into them. I used the bed and managed to wobble to a standing position. I took a few breaths and somehow remained vertical. A good thing.

  Maybe the killers had gotten to Aric. I’d be next.

  I groped beside the bed and finally found the night-stand. Something rattled. Pills? Two bottles? Sure, maybe. I took them, slipped them into my skirt pocket. My wallet. Yes. Into the other pocket. That was all
I needed.

  I found the wall and began to fumble about for an exit. God, I felt lousy—stomach bouncy, head throbbing, hand achy. But I could do this. Had to. I wanted out of there.

  When I reached what felt like a door, I pawed for the knob, turned it slowly, softly, cracked the door.

  Dim, smoky light filtered in. Tiles on the floor. Maybe I was at the doctor’s or the vet’s. That’s who’d bandaged my hand. I slipped outside the room, hugged the wall. I just wanted to get away. I needed to talk to Hank.

  Voices, low and melodic, filtered in from somewhere. I peered around a corner. There was Aric, leaning against a counter, drink in hand, smiling at a sexy brown-haired woman. Across what I could see of the room—a kitchen, most likely—was a sofa. Coyote lay on it, his shoulder bound with what looked like a fresh bandage. Okay. Good. But the setting didn’t feel right, and I sure didn’t either.

  The pills. I held the two bottles to the light. Percocet. No wonder I felt loopy. And amoxicillin. My hand—encased in a baseball mitt of gauze, definitely felt different.

  Then why wasn’t I trusting here? Just because.

  I sidestepped to the right, opened another door. A laundry room, complete with stacked washer/dryer and steam press. I flipped the twist lock, walked across the laundry and out the door.

  Great. Not.

  The courtyard was lavish, with a pool and cabana and cacti and waterfall and a lovely iron gate that probably was locked. Now what?

  I slid down the wall. Had to think. I’d been in worse places. Sure.

  A car drove past the gate. Then another and another.

  Except it was the same car, wasn’t it? Driving back and forth. How bizarre.

  I wanted to wave, jump up and down. Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.

  Hell. What if I was trapped? Fear closed my throat and I shook, couldn’t stop. I rested my head on my knees.

  “Hey, girlfriend!”

  Out, across the courtyard and through the gate . . . a hand, waving like mad, fingernails painted a frantic pink. What the . . .

  “Hey! Get over here, you wicked woman!”

  Someone calling to me. I must be hearing things.

  “Hey you, girlie!”

  I pushed against the wall, managed to stand and staggered over to the gate. The car that kept passing. Huh. Out poked a head. It was sheathed in a red scarf, from which a riot of red curls escaped.