The Bone Man

by Vicki Stiefel

  “Scared? Of course I’m not scared.”

  “I’m a shrink. I know these things.”

  He began to backpedal out of the room.

  “Hold it!” I said, starting to feel a familiar exhaustion. “What are you so scared of?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You’ve been cursed.”

  Later that afternoon, Hank paced back and forth, back and . . . the term “caged bear” came to mind. He scratched his upper lip, where his mustache had grown for so long. I could tell he missed it. I missed it, too. He looked odd.

  Every few seconds, he’d shoot me an annoyed stare while I continued to put on the clothes he’d bought for me.

  “I feel like a kept woman in these clothes. First Aric, now you.”

  He seemed ready to explode out of the denim shirt he wore. He wanted to holler at me, I could tell. Except he wouldn’t do that, especially not in a hospital. I kissed his cheek.

  “I don’t like anything about this, Tally,” he said.

  I kissed his cheek again.

  “There are things you’ve conveniently left out of your tale.”

  I shrugged as I zipped up the boot-cut jeans. It would have been easier to spray them on. “I don’t want to talk here.”

  “I’ve booked us a flight from Albuquerque.”

  I slipped into the white shirt with pearl snaps. “You can’t run my life.”

  “You made that clear a year ago. Yup, ya did.”

  As I reached for the socks, I turned away. I needed some privacy. I’d hurt him badly with my feelings for Kranak. I’d like to relent, go back home, be with Penny, cozy up with Hank by the fire. Snuggle. Make love. Talk.

  Except when I closed my eyes I saw Delphine’s face and dear Didi floating in a pool of her own blood.

  “Your pal Kranak is the CSS on Didi Cravitz’s murder,” he said. “I can’t stand that guy.”

  “So what if he’s my pal. He’s just a friend. I thought we got that straight. And, yeah, Kranak’s good.” I sat on the bed and tugged on a sock and a left cowboy boot. “Really good. But it’s all about out here, not back there.”

  “Delphine’s disappearance is being looked into, too,” he said.

  “She’s dead.” I tugged on the other boot, stood, looked over my shoulder at his sweet face. “They feel good, Hank. Thanks. I always liked cowboy boots.”

  He grinned. “I know. I got you a pair of Merrells, too.”

  “Cool. And a room in town?”

  “Just for tonight.”

  “I get another shot tomorrow.”

  “And then we leave for Boston.” He pulled me close, kissed me hard and long. I rested my head beneath his chin.

  The good-byes would be harder than most.

  I couldn’t say I was feeling a hundred percent, and maybe I was hallucinating, but as Hank drove us down Route 66 in the heart of Gallup, I was sure I’d stepped into an old movie, one made just for a girl who’d grown up loving anything Western.

  “What a trip,” I said.

  He nodded. “Not Maine. Nope suh.”

  “Route Sixty-six! If this wasn’t all so awful, I’d love being here. It’s so cool.”

  “Ayuh, that it is. I should have rented us a Corvette.”

  I laughed, and then I remembered. “Uh, oh. Where’s Coyote?”

  “In quarantine with the vet for six months. You really impressed those people with your love for that mangy dog.”

  I snuggled next to him. “You’re full of it. He’s not mangy. You liked him too. He’s a good dog. He only reacted when I tried to put the muzzle on him. Where are we headed?”

  “Surprise.”

  I took in the sights of auto sales and gas stations and a million neoned hotels—Best Western and Travelodge and Days Inn and Comfort Inn and Red Roof Inn—all shouting Stay Here!

  Hank slowed, and before us stood a huge neon sign proclaiming EL RANCHO HOTEL & MOTEL. HOME OF THE MOVIE STARS. ARMAND ORTEGA’S WORLD FAMOUS INDIAN STORE.

  “Wow,” I said.

  He pulled into the parking lot out front. For all its proclamations, the place looked like a two-story motel. “Home of the movie stars?”

  He nodded. “I had a lot of time to read while you were busy being sick.”

  “I’m sure.” I tried to keep the sarcasm out of my voice and failed.

  “Look, you were in the hospital for twenty-four hours. It’s getting to be a thing with you. Aside from getting you some clothes, what was I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Go out on the town?”

  He tweaked my breast, which felt awfully good. I swatted his hand away. “Behave.”

  We left the car, and he wrapped his arm around my waist. “About El Rancho. It was built by the brother of D.W. Griffith.”

  “The famous movie director? Huh. I didn’t even know Griffith had a brother. So there ya go.”

  Inside, I stood in the immense lobby and was amazed. “Well, it certainly is an improvement over the outside.”

  The two-story open lobby was what I’d call Old West rustic. Or maybe Old Movie rustic. A huge double staircase on either side curled up to the second floor, and dark wood and light fixtures that I’d swear were old-time stamped aluminum. The twin staircases surrounded an immense stone fireplace that blazed away. The place was full of Navajo rugs, which I loved, and deer, elk, and antelope trophy heads, which I definitely didn’t. The floor was brick and just about every wall was plastered with photos of movie stars from a bygone era.

  While Hank checked us in, I walked over to a Spencer Tracy photo signed by the man himself. They were all signed, and pretty amazing. Katharine Hepburn and Jackie Cooper and Ronald Reagan and Alan Ladd. Joel McCrea and Errol Flynn and Troy Donahue and Suzanne Pleshette and more.

  “This sure is something,” I said as Hank led us up the curving staircase. Our room was far less interesting and certainly the most conventional place I’d stayed at since arriving in New Mexico. There was something to be said for that. We even had a balcony that overlooked the courtyard pool. “I say it again—wow.”

  “Let’s eat.”

  I was starved, but hesitant. I looked at him. He was unpacking, making everything neat. He seemed normal, but he wasn’t. He knew something, and he was also furious. His explosions were too calm and quiet. I hated them.

  I wanted to bolt. Instead, I ate a huge lunch, just like a girl who was having her last meal on the planet.

  Hank stood facing the balcony. “Are you ready to tell me what you aren’t telling me yet?”

  I pressed my hands to the back of my neck. I wanted Hank to know everything. Not only was he my lover, but he was also a damned fine homicide detective.

  I bowed my head. If I told him, he’d force me to return to Boston.

  The hunt was more than about Delphine, or even Didi now, or Governor Bowannie. It was about a gun-shot old man, a murdered Zuni girl, and an attack by an anonymous killer who’d ended up dead. Whatever these people wanted, they didn’t care how they got it.

  Hank cracked the slider, and a soft breeze played through the door. I walked up behind him and wrapped my arms around his chest. I pressed myself to his back and hugged him.

  “Love me,” I whispered. Just saying the words made me wet. “Now. Please.” Up on tiptoe, I kissed the back of his neck. My hand moved from his chest to his groin, and I massaged his hardness. It felt fine.

  He tipped his head back and groaned. I pressed him tighter, moved my hand faster.

  He flipped around, held me at arm’s length. “Jeeze, Tal.”

  “Hank.”

  “You’re doing this on purpose.”

  “Of course I am. But it’s real. You know that.”

  He chuckled. “Ayuh, I do.”

  I sighed when his fingers found my crotch, and he moved them back and forth.

  “You’re a devil,” I said.

  He lifted me, and I wrapped my legs around him. “God, you feel good.”

  We fell onto the bed, and I couldn’t
stand the clothes between us. I tugged at his chinos while he ripped open the snaps on my shirt. We were naked in an instant, and I guided him inside me, held him tight for a moment.

  “Don’t move,” I said. “Wait.” I was breathless, panting, and I licked his chest, relishing the salty taste of him.

  He suckled my breast, and I inhaled slowly, felt the pops of sensation across my nipples where he sucked and pinched and massaged.

  “Can’t wait anymore, babe.” He moved, slowly, deeply, and I did too. Our dance lasted until his fingers touched me once and the pleasure arched my back, and I thrust against him one . . . more . . . time.

  “Me too,” he gasped.

  And we both spun higher than kites in the wind.

  Six A.M. I checked Hank’s watch, which I now wore on my wrist. Yes. I was used to the time change—two hours earlier than Boston. Hank, normally an early riser, was not.

  I’d showered last night, packed, so he thought I was preparing for the trip back East.

  I slid out of bed, watched as that dear man’s chest rose and fell.

  I looked down at him. I couldn’t even brush his lips good-bye. His police officer instincts would awaken, and I’d be sunk. It was so hard not to touch him.

  I love you, I mouthed.

  I turned. So hard.

  A hand shot out and captured my wrist.

  “You didn’t really think . . .” Hank said.

  I was still turned away. I couldn’t look at him. “I’ve got to go, Hank.”

  “My ass!”

  Several things happened at once. I broke free of Hank’s grasp, stumbled backward, Hank flung off the covers, and the glass in the sliders shattered.

  Hank flew out of bed and on top of me.

  “You’re smothering me, dammit!”

  He rolled off me and crawled, flat-bellied, toward the nightstand.

  Another shot.

  On hands and knees, I backpedaled to the bathroom, making sure I still had Hank in view. “What the hell is going on?” I said.

  “You’re the one who should know.” He inched open the drawer and pulled out his Sig. “Get the fuck down.”

  “I am down.”

  “I can see you.”

  “And I can see you. All of you.”

  He snorted. He crept back to the bed, raised his gun, and aimed for the window. The shot boomed. “That should keep him busy for a sec. Ayuh.”

  “Sure should,” I said.

  He fired again. “Tally Whyte, what the hell have you gotten into down here?”

  I inched to the door, reached for the knob. I felt like a traitor.

  “Throw me the boxers that are in the bathroom.”

  Oh, dear. It was now or never. Still on my hands and knees, I flung the door open and crawled outside hauling my backpack. “I love you, Hank.”

  “Goddammit, get back here!”

  “Don’t worry, hon. I’ll call the cops.”

  I fled.

  I stopped at the desk and told them someone was shooting at us, then hightailed it out of there. I took a cab to the hospital, and although they hassled me that I was early, I got my rabies shot almost immediately. The nurse also changed the bandage on my hand, which was looking much better.

  I kept watching the door, hoping I wouldn’t see Hank barreling through it. I didn’t, and I made it out of the hospital before Hank arrived.

  I raced out to my waiting cab, hopped in, and we were off.

  I had four days before my next rabies shot. It didn’t seem like much, but it would be enough time for me to find Aric.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cars whizzed by as I slid back into the cab. I could rent a car at the airport, but first I needed a phone. Off we went to Gallup’s Radio Shack, and I bought one of those prepaid phones, a best bet to keep Hank away just long enough for me to find Aric. I bought a map, too. I was sure I knew where Aric was headed—Chaco Canyon, sacred site and homeland of the Old Ones, the Ancient Ones, the Anasazi. My dream of Aric in the white buffalo robe had been more than that. I believed it.

  The Peabody’s broken pot was from Chaco.

  The skull—Chaco. Or so it would seem.

  Chaco Canyon had to be my destination. Aric was going to go alone, and I couldn’t have that. It was my fight as much as his.

  The taxi dumped me at the small Gallup airport. I knew what I had to do, but before I rented a car, I sat on a bench, where the wind whipped my hair and face, and I unfolded the map.

  It looked like I had about fifty miles to travel. I had to take I-40 to Thoreau, which was sure an interesting name for a town in New Mexico. I walked to the counter and explained I was headed to Albuquerque, but I wanted fourwheel drive. I paid for the Ford rental with a credit card—Aric said I shouldn’t, but I had no choice—and pressed the pedal to the metal.

  I-40 was a pretty highway that wound through New Mexico’s high desert. I was headed east, just as if I were going to Albuquerque. The land was scrubby and dry, with blue skies overhead and air that was crystal. I traveled through the Fort Wingate Military Reservation, whatever that was, and saw signs for small towns and the continental divide. It was so different from Zuni and yet the same. I felt more at home here in the wilderness than I did in any city.

  I sighed. I was alone. I was scared. Something deep in my belly told me I was still in grave danger. I could have had Hank with me. He might have come. Except he had fought me each step of the way. I didn’t want that.

  Somebody had once said that fear put all our senses on alert. I hoped that was true in my case.

  I saw piñon pine and juniper trees, sagebrush, tumbleweeds, and some short, sparse grasses whose names I didn’t know. The day was warm, nearly sixty. But the night would be cool, even cooler than back home. I needed to find a place to stay. I hoped that would be in Thoreau or Crownpoint, or another town I’d pass through on the Navajo reservation before reaching the vast expanse that was Chaco.

  I approached Thoreau in less than a half hour. I was zoomin’. Beautiful red mesas lined the way and up ahead, a silver water tower.

  Why had I thought Aric was the enemy? Made no sense. He wasn’t abandoning me or hurting me. He was trying to protect me, just like his father had. He believed in the evil that was out there, disturbing the atmosphere, the evil that had killed Delphine and stolen the Old Ones pots and left Didi swimming in blood.

  I should let him handle it. He was more suited.

  Except he’d said I was a part of it.

  I shook my head.

  Up ahead, Thoreau.

  Oh.

  An abandoned motel, some buildings, several schools. Not much of a town. I slowed. I didn’t even see a gas station. There was a Navajo Nation Chapter House that looked beautifully built and well maintained. Churches. And a rather lovely mission called St. Bonaventure. But not a welcoming tourist mecca, for sure. I didn’t see zip in the way of accommodations.

  Over on the side of the road, a sign read GO HAWKS! in green and gold letters. I smiled. Some things are a constant.

  I checked Hank’s watch. Not late. Only around eleven. What to do? Hell, there had to be someplace to stay in Crownpoint.

  I took the left off I-40 onto NM-371 and away to Crownpoint I went.

  More dust, more scrub brush, and a severe beauty I found inspiring. I checked my gas gauge. Plenty. The road grew hilly, and some small trees dotted the landscape.

  Another half hour—not bad—and I arrived in Crownpoint. I looked around at the small, flat town, which was certainly larger than Thoreau. But poor, at least in dollar terms. I was aware that the Navajo in this part of New Mexico were poor, but I hadn’t realized how poor. Again, in dollars, which was very much a white man’s perspective.

  A man in a checked shirt and blue bandana walked down the main drag. I pulled over. “Hello. Is there a supermarket or gas station in town?”

  He nodded. “Yup. We got real modern stuff, lady.” He smiled as if it were some inside joke.

  I smiled back and said,
“Super.” I thanked him and drove to Bashas’ Supermarket. Sand and dust gusted around the truck as I parked next to a Chevy pickup at Bashas’, which sat at the crossroads of 9 and 57. A good spot, looked to me.

  The market was well stocked and clean and had a good feel. I ordered a sandwich at the deli, used the women’s room, and bought an ice chest, some water, juice, and Diet Coke, as well as crackers, almonds, yogurt, and V-8. I picked up a flashlight, some white socks, a New Mexico Magazine, the Gallup paper and four Hershey bars with almonds. I retrieved my turkey sandwich, filled the cooler with bagged ice, and asked the checkout girl where I could stay in Crownpoint.

  She shook her head. “Sorry. No place.”

  “None?”

  “Nope,” she said. She rang up my purchases.

  “Any thoughts on where I can stay?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Grants?”

  “How far is that?”

  She wagged her hand, smiled. “Maybe an hour. Maybe a little more. Depends.”

  “On how I drive. Right. I’m headed to Chaco. Anything else?”

  “Farmington. Up north. Should I put this stuff in the cooler?”

  “Sure. Let’s.” No one lined up behind me, so she and I arranged all the groceries I’d bought in the cooler. “How far is Farmington?”

  “Pretty far. Like, almost three hours. Yeah.” She nodded.

  My watch now read noon. “How far is Chaco Canyon?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve never been there.”

  Before Bashas’ I’d passed a gas station. I’d try there and see how I did.

  I filled up the Ford with regular. The guy at the station suggested Grants, too. Grants it was, which I found incredibly frustrating. I was going in the opposite direction from Chaco.

  On the way back to Thoreau, I checked out my spiffy new cell phone. I had service. Cool.

  While I drove back the way I’d just come, I downed my turkey sandwich. I also got an itch, as if . . . I looked in my rear-view mirror. Nothing. The road was empty.

  No one knew I was here or where I was going. Maybe Hank could find me. I doubted anyone else could. I’d covered my tracks well enough.