Big Bones (A Butterscotch Jones Mystery Book 2)

by Jackson, Melanie

  He didn’t say anything, but he began to think that maybe they weren’t dealing with bear bones. The idea was small at first, so hedged in by previous expectation that it could barely wiggle, but it began to grow. Could this be some forgotten Indian cemetery? If so, should he report it to someone?

  Butterscotch, who had an understanding of this environment, wasn’t happy either, though there was no talk of bears. Chuck was sure that there was no specific threat or she would say something, but she was jumpy and trying to look every way at once. Max stood beside her, scenting the air. His tail wasn’t wagging.

  * * *

  Chuck moved closer to the grave but I stayed back. We were intruders there and I felt cold. Not on the outside where there was sweat and sun and still, stale air that smelled like some animal had been panting in it, but on the inside where something was whispering that we didn’t belong. If you had asked me that morning, I would have said that I didn’t believe in ghosts in graveyards. I was rethinking this opinion.

  I tried to camouflage my uneasiness with a smile but I know I failed. Old Thunder and a number of other people had been here this week, but already the weeds were growing over the rock pile he thought was a grave, hiding it from prying eyes. Nature was erasing our presence. Even I, who had terrific respect for her power, hadn’t realized that it could happen so quickly.

  I looked around carefully while I waited. There were other orderly piles of rocks and behind them small trees had been lashed together making what looked like the frames of narrow teepees forming a kind of bower. It had been done long ago and the branches had grown intertwined. Maybe this really was a graveyard, something that the newer tribes had forgotten. Someplace they shunned. There were stories….

  That wasn’t a nice thought. I wished very much that I could un-see the eerie place. Forget it totally, not have it anywhere in memory where it might escape some night and enter my dreams. I did not want to share brain space with whatever had made this dead habitation.

  My ears were standing up like Max’s and getting bigger and straighter by the second, but though I listened I could hear nothing out of the ordinary. So why the goosebumps, the dry mouth?

  Old Thunder was old but, but neither his nose nor his wits had deserted him. He was growing uncomfortable, as I was, scanning the trees. I hoped that he would say something about leaving so I didn’t have to.

  “The bones were here?” Chuck asked, forcing us to move closer and for me to actually look into the damaged cairn.

  Old Thunder looked in the hole and then gasped. Red rage covered his cheeks.

  Max began to growl then, his neck hair stiff and I looked about quickly, trying to see where the danger was. My eyes saw nothing, but I did not relax. Max could smell an intruder long before we could see one.

  “What’s wrong?” Chuck asked and un-holstered his pistol. The small digital camera went in his pocket. I was glad to see that he had his priorities straight.

  “We need to leave. Take a picture of the grave if you must, but we need to go.”

  Old Thunder nodded.

  “That scientist. I bet he took the bones. Now the spirits are angry. They’ll send a warrior guardian.”

  Angry spirits and a warrior guardian? Maybe that was crap, but something was making my skin crawl. Maybe it was the growing smell of ozone and animal in the air. People don’t know this but bears stink. I told myself that this was what we were smelling, because in that moment, a bear seemed less frightening than things I was imagining.

  I know Chuck wanted to argue, but he looked at Max and probably recalled my many lectures about bears and decided not to dispute our decision since we were unanimous about the danger.

  “If he took the bones, we’ll get them back,” Chuck promised. “And if he has tampered with a crime scene, I’ll arrest him.”

  “If he took the bones, something worse will happen to him,” Old Thunder said flatly. I wondered if Chuck heard the promise of violence in this statement.

  Chapter 5

  Dr. Alvin Meade was nervous. He hated this stunted forest and distrusted the GPS that was supposedly guiding him back to the village since it kept losing touch with the satellite that informed it of its position. He was nervous because he had done something truly illegal and immoral. Yes, he had stalked along the margins of professionalism before, but he hadn’t crossed the line. He was also worried because his backpack was heavy and he couldn’t run quickly should an emergency— like a hungry bear— arise. But mostly he was nervous because he was sure that he was being followed through the brush and shrubs, and the list of who or what could be following him was short and unpleasant.

  He supposed it might be the man with sunglasses that he had seen in the village— possibly a rival anthropologist. It was this fear of a rival that had prompted Alvin to the insane act of stealing the bones from that ancient cemetery after pretending to feel too sick to go off with the reporters to see the animal’s lair.

  But the bones! Those big, not quite human bones! They could save his career. No more disgrace, no more being outcast, no more derision for his theories. There would be papers and tenure and maybe a book and then a tour with lots of television coverage. If these bones were what he thought they were— well, it would change everything. He had to have them. He couldn’t risk someone else getting the credit for this find.

  But these woods were very thick and very still, and there was that itch at the back of his neck that demanded he turn around and look backward every few steps.

  Though he suspected he was being followed, it still came as a shock when he turned around and found someone there. He wasn’t shocked for long though, before his throat was cut.

  * * *

  We moved with haste but also with as much quiet as we could manage, and we let Max tell us which ways were safest. Whatever had upset my wolf, it was something he had no wish to tangle with and I happily followed his advice about avoiding it.

  Max stopped, sniffed, suddenly veered east and insisted we follow, though the way was rougher than before.

  I saw the body first, wedged into the rocks, and stopped thinking of anything at all. Suddenly my head felt as light as a ping-pong ball. The last full thought I had before the world began to spin was that it would take someone very strong to stuff a body in there.

  “Damn it,” Chuck said from over my shoulder and then moved me gently aside.

  I did everything that Chuck told me to— I guess— but he and Old Thunder had to deal with unsticking the body because I misplaced my brain and muscles, and couldn’t think of anything to do except hug Max and hope I looked like I was restraining him and not just burying my empty head in his fur while I fought off nausea and shock.

  There is no good place to die and no real good place to find a body, since no one ever goes and lays down at the undertakers when they feel the final hour approaching. But there are bad places and worse places, and stuffed in a rock crack near an ant hill would be one of them. Think about it. Your head is already nearly torn off by something with claws, or a knife and a lot of anger, but then you get eaten by ants and meat bees and some kind of flies. Garbage is disposed of more thoughtfully.

  I had a small tarp in my backpack and sturdy twine in my pocket. The last time I had built a sledge it was to haul treasure. This time it was to move a body.

  Peering over Max’s back, I watched the two men work. Both were calm. One had bruised knuckles and a hunting knife in his belt.

  My brain skittered away from that bit of information. Old Thunder hadn’t done this. First off, the kill was fresh, the blood still wet on the rocks. Also, Old Thunder would not have allowed Max to lead us here if he had murdered the—

  “It’s the anthropologist?” I asked.

  “Ayup,” Old Thunder said. His voice was calm. “Same clothes, at least. He doesn’t have the bones though. If he had them, they’ve been taken.”

  “Oh.” I had forgotten about the bones. Forgotten everything really, including that there was a killer some
thing nearby.

  “He doesn’t have his backpack either,” Wendell’s uncle added. “Just this useless GPS.”

  “Take a look around for the pack but be careful,” Chuck advised, tying off the body. At least we wouldn’t have to look at it all the way back to town. I hoped the head stayed on too. The last bits of tendon holding it in place hadn’t looked very sturdy and I didn’t want to end up chasing it down if it rolled away while we scrambling up a mountain.

  My own head began to clear as the body disappeared under the canvas. The brain reengaged and started thinking, albeit sluggishly and reluctantly.

  “Bear attack?” Chuck asked when Old Thunder returned empty handed.

  “Ayup.” There was no hesitation.

  I was surprised to hear this. It didn’t look like any bear attack I had seen. And where was the backpack?

  “A hungry bear might have carried off the pack. If it had food,” Old Thunder suggested, which was utter nonsense because the bear would just rip it open and eat in place. I realized the men were colluding.

  Max had wandered over to the edge of a game trail and started to whine. It was perhaps odd, given that he was a dog, but we all got up to see what was bothering him.

  It was a pair of dark glasses, badly scratched and half-hidden by some low-growing shrub.

  Without thinking, I reached into my sweat shirt and pulled out the other thing I always have with me, a plastic bag. I handed it to Chuck.

  “Unless you want to leave them?” I said.

  “Best not, he answered, and picked the sunglasses up using the baggie.

  My brain kicked into overdrive. Could the man in dark glasses have killed the anthropologist? But why? Surely not for some old bones. But that made more sense than a bear attack. We hadn’t seen any bear signs in the area and there was nothing for them to eat out here. Maybe a wolverine? It might have attacked if the man had somehow fallen and been knocked unconscious.

  We started for town. I offered to take a turn pulling the sledge but both Old Thunder and Chuck refused. Young and old, one country and one city, but both were determined to be gentlemen. I happily let them haul the grisly burden. I was busy with my rifle and my eyes. Bear, wolverine, murderer— no one was taking me by surprise.

  Days were long, but dusk was nearing when we reached The Bones’ house at the edge of town. He has an old red freezer out back that isn’t usually plugged it, but kept for emergencies, like a death when immediate burial wasn’t possible. The doc was still away, but we plugged in the old icebox and then stashed the body inside, still in the tarp. We would have to be sure and warn him before he came home with a load of deer steaks and got a nasty surprise.

  I was exhausted, having almost shot a skunk, a porcupine and a raccoon who blundered onto our trail, but I offered to fix dinner for Old Thunder. He declined because he wanted ‘to be away home’ and check the dogs.

  “You’ll call Big John and let him know we’re back,” I said. Our eyes met and I knew he understood that I wanted him to call Big John because I had company and wouldn’t feel comfortable being as frank as he could be.

  Chuck and I got clean first, scrubbing away both the physical and psychological filth. I have a kind of shower rigged up that gets hot water from an old steam engine. Frankly, it’s a little scary because there isn’t much to regulate the temperature and the pipes moan and rattle once it’s stoked. I think of H.G. Wells every time I turn the thing on. I also think about that song about the poor engineer on the Old 97 who was ‘scalded to death by the steam’. None of this did I say to Chuck.

  When we were clean I made dinner. It was probably some weird kind of traumatic shock, but at that point I felt very calm and almost pleasantly tired in body as I served up our stew with biscuits.

  I was something else in mind though. Could I blame these sudden feelings on the ‘in the midst of life we are in death’ so let’s have sex syndrome?

  Trying to be casual, I looked over at The Mountie, leaning against the sofa and petting Max who was happily finishing my stew. The usually shifting tectonic plates of our relationship were still for the moment. Eventually they would drift apart or collide violently, but for the time being I thought that we could sit side by side drinking coffee without damage. I considered the matter a moment more and then went to fetch a small bottle of brandy I keep for my rare guests.

  Chuck was surprised to see the bottle since he knew I didn’t often drink, but after a moment held out his cup. I poured us both a small amount. Max made room for me next to The Mountie.

  “I’m sure our town seems more than a little weird to outsiders.”

  “Not once you know the context,” he said, blowing on the clouds of steam floating in his cup.

  I was startled. Did he know the truth about us? If he did, would that be beneficial, or an auto da fe conducted by officialdom when Chuck got around to telling them about this most recent death?

  “I’ve figured out a lot of it,” Chuck said. “Just the outlines. I haven’t gone looking for particulars, so you can relax.”

  “Because suddenly you aren’t the curious type?” I asked.

  “No. Because I am being watched and don’t want to direct any more attention this way.”

  “We really appreciate that,” I said sincerely. “So what about the anthropologist? You’re satisfied that it wasn’t murder?”

  “Technically, murder is a crime committed by one human against another human. I don’t think that happened here. If The Bones will sign a death certificate, it should be easy enough to make the problem go away.”

  This surprised me. It was getting to be a habit of his.

  “What about justice?” I asked, not caring as much as I should about this topic, but feeling that Chuck ought to care more than he seemed to.

  “Official justice? It won’t happen. Some people have hermetically sealed brains,” Chuck said. The people he worked for, for instance. “They need explanations that won’t confuse them. Grave-robbing of Sasquatch bones isn’t in their standard criminal motive vocabularies. And they aren’t going to listen to any suggestions that it was someone else who did the killing for another reason.”

  Someone else. Dark Glasses.

  “Bear attack then?” I guessed, knowing it was best but feeling a little uncomfortable. What if it had been Dark Glasses that killed the anthropologist? Were we just going to turn a blind eye while he hunted among us? Who was this man that Chuck didn’t feel able to touch him?

  “Yes, and a probably a bear skeleton in his missing backpack. There were no human bones— not that I saw— so we needn’t bring that part up at all. An anthropologist got lost and a bear ate him. Sad but simple.”

  “There’s nothing to see here, folks. Just move along,” I muttered and got a smile.

  Chuck, poor thing, was getting ever more expert at the art of official obfuscation. I wondered if he minded very much. I suspect that he did.

  “And do you think it was a bear attack?” I asked curiously. “Off the record.”

  “I will choose to believe so until I see something that convinces me otherwise.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  “But you don’t believe it was bear?” he asked.

  I hesitated.

  “It could have been, though it’s the wrong time of year.”

  “But…”

  “I’ve seen— and smelled— a lot of animals. And Max usually behaves in certain ways when a bear is around. He was acting…” I paused. “Differently.”

  Actually, he had acted like there was a hostile human around and rather than chasing after an animal, he stayed to guard me, but I wasn’t about to say that.

  “But that may be because we were in new territory and he was confused,” I offered. “We can’t go building theories around that.”

  Not theories that would lead back to murder and official involvement. So I wouldn’t be bringing up my theory about Dark Glasses and how a human might try to make a murder look like an animal attack.
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br />   Chuck frowned.

  “Why do you think Old Thunder believes so strongly in the Sasquatch? I know he is only saying bear attack to make things easy for me.”

  How to explain Old Thunder’s obsession without making him sound like a dangerous crackpot? I hadn’t forgotten his bruised hands.

  “Why is anyone at the beck and call of strange beliefs? In his culture, there are stories of a Ghost People and of Animal Peoples. I guess if you see one— or even just think you’ve seen one…” I shrugged. “Lots of people believe in UFOs too. The Sasquatch Watch is harmless. They’re just amateur naturalists looking for something exciting to believe in.”

  Chuck sighed and rubbed a hand over his face.

  “It doesn’t matter. I should let it go. There is no Sasquatch. Most of the videos were obvious fakes.”

  “Probably best to let it be,” I agreed. “You’ll sleep better.”

  He snorted.

  “Though I’ve hit a glass ceiling anyway,” Chuck said suddenly. “I’ll go no higher whether I mention Sasquatch or not.”

  “At work?” I asked, wondering about the sudden shift in conversation. If it was a shift. Was his career in trouble because of what had happened with the Russians last winter? Was that why he had been so distant even though I was sure that he had been attracted to me?

  He nodded.

  “And I have realized that though my contract says that the government is paying me for my thoughts and part of my time, specifically for eight hours a day, what is really happening is that I am selling them my entire life— the prime of my life too. Because this is not an eight hour a day job.”

  “I don’t see how it could be,” I said honestly. “I think it is that way for doctors too. You’re never really off duty.”

  He nodded.

  “Lately, neither of us is happy with the old arrangement. They aren’t getting full value for their wage, and I have discovered that I am being underpaid for my loss.”