Hawk Moon (8 page)

Maybe they were actors like Burke, talking about new parts. Or maybe they were a couple of special effects guys. Burke had gotten into the movie business through his father, who created special effects. Burke had learned how to blow up buildings and bridges and turn car crashes into fiery disasters. His father had wanted him to take over the business, but Burke had left pyrotechnics behind. He said it was too dangerous, but Will figured it was because Burke wanted to be a star.

Will raised his gaze and looked beyond the town toward the mountain. The snow line had crept down several hundred feet from the peak. It had snowed in town a couple of times already, but it hadn't stayed long. He'd heard that the weather phenomenon known as El Niño had been bringing unusually mild weather to the Rockies this fall, but that could change any day. Winter was just around the corner.

"These lawyers, I'll tell you, Will," Connors said after hanging up the phone. "They're so damned pushy. They want me to sell out to the Hollywood
slimeballs
, but I won't do it."

Will nodded. He'd heard his grandfather's anti-Hollywood spiel for years and knew he was in for another dose.

"I wish you could've been here back in the forties and fifties when this was a nice quiet town with no chichi West Coast types. They've corrupted the spirit of this town, and, you know, I wouldn't be surprised if Myra's disappearance is somehow related."

He paused and frowned at Will. "Something's troubling you. What happened at school today?"

Will shrugged. "Everyone knows about the knife, and they think I killed Myra. They're even making jokes about it and betting on when I'm going to be arrested."

Connors leaped up from his chair, paced over to the window, and stared out. "You see, that's what I mean. You're going to school with the Hollywood kids, and they're just like their parents. Here a nice young girl is missing and they're trying to make a buck on it. Just like what their parents would do, except they'd make a movie about it."

"Grandpa, some of those kids are okay."

"Sure, there may be a few decent ones, but they're outnumbered. I'm telling you, Will, money and power are everything to their parents. They're not accountable like the rest of us, and it rubs right off on their kids."

Maybe it was a mistake coming up here,
Will thought. Once his grandfather started talking about Aspen and Hollywood, he just got angrier and angrier. "Grandpa, I was wondering, do you think I should get a lawyer? I mean, just in case . . .”

Connors folded his arms across his chest. "I was thinking about that today. I even made a couple of calls. The best thing right now is to be low and see what happens. Nobody's accused you of anything yet."

That was true, but Will had a bad feeling that that was about to change.

W
ill came awake with a start. He sat up, blinked his eyes, and stared out into the darkness. Something had woken him up.

He heard a thump and looked over in the corner. At first, all he saw was a blur of movement. Then his eyes adjusted to the dark. The image assumed form, shape, color, and seemed to emanate a light of its own. He glimpsed a being with a cylindrical head that was red, blue, and yellow with red
buttonlike
eyes and mouth. Several feathers protruded from the top. A multicolored shawl was draped over the being's shoulders, and it wore a brown kilt.

Will recognized it as a life-sized version of a
kachina
doll that he'd bought on the reservation, a
Masau
kachina
carved by one of the best carvers on Third Mesa. The
kachinas
represented the forces of nature, and among them
Masau
was one of the most mysterious. He recalled his father saying that
Masau
was many things and one of them was a symbol of death.

Will held his breath, and his heart began to pound as the
kachina
moved toward him. It stopped at the foot of the bed; Will could smell a musky scent of earth. The figure raised an arm and pointed at the wall behind the bed. Will didn't want to turn and look at what
Masau
was pointing at, but then he felt his head shifting against his will.

The wall was gone. In its place was the dark opening of a cave. It didn't seem to matter that what he was looking at was impossible. There was no cave in his room.
I'm dreaming. Dreaming, but somehow awake.
He heard a grunt from
Masau
, as if he'd read Will's thoughts and approved of them.

Will slipped over the side of the bed and took a couple of steps toward the cave. The cave reminded him of the one he and his father had visited during a pilgrimage this past summer. But then he saw something a few feet inside the entrance. It was a body lying facedown. It was Myra. He took a step back, but was unable to take his eyes from the body until
Masau
moved into the entrance of the cave and blocked his view.

To Will's astonishment, he no longer saw a
kachina
, but a man wearing a cowboy hat and bandana around his neck. Not just any man. It was John Wayne. Will was so startled that it took several seconds before he realized that Wayne was holding his upturned palms out toward him. In his hands was a pile of blue, snowy powder.

Will's body jerked awake.

He was lying in bed, but he couldn't move. He wanted to get up to go to the bathroom, but he was paralyzed with a dread of the unknown, of something watching him from a dark corner. Finally, he forced himself to get up and he darted for the bathroom. He turned on the light and looked into the mirror, chastising himself. He was acting like a little kid afraid of the dark. When he returned to bed, he was wide awake. He looked at the spot where the cave had been, but only saw the wall of his bedroom.

John Wayne. John Wayne. Dream images were supposed to be symbolic, but he couldn't think of how John Wayne could be symbolic of anything related to that blue powder—the Chill—that he'd held in his hands. Will was sure that's what it was.

John Wayne. J. W. What if it was just his initials? J. W. as in Jerry Wharton.

With all that had happened in the last couple of days, he'd almost forgotten that he'd seen Wharton at Ashcroft right around the time that the bloody knife had been found. Maybe he'd have a talk with Jerry.

"W
ill. Will, hurry. Come up here. Quick!" Marion Connors called in an excited voice from the top of the stairs.

"Okay. Okay." Will pulled on his jeans, then bounded up the stairs. It wasn't like his mother to sound excited about anything at this hour. "What is it?"

The TV was on, and she was watching a morning news show from Denver. "Sheriff Kirkpatrick is going to be on. It's live."

"Did they find Myra?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. Let's watch. Here it comes."

The familiar face of the newscaster, Amelia Fields, appeared and she briefly told the story of Myra's disappearance and hinted that there might be a break in the case. Then a line of searchers appeared on the screen with Ashcroft in the background as Fields continued talking. "Myra Hodges was an honor student who was known among her friends as someone who was always willing to listen and to help out others. But it might have been these traits that led to her abduction."

Then Fields introduced Kirkpatrick, who was being interviewed from his office. "Sheriff, can you tell us the latest developments in the search for Myra Hodges?"

Kirkpatrick was sitting behind a desk clear of all clutter except for a telephone. A computer rested on a smaller desk to one side. "Unfortunately, we haven't found her yet, and we have reason now to believe that she will not be found alive."

"I understand, Sheriff, that you did find a knife with dried blood on it that matched Miss Hodges's blood type. Do you have any suspects?"

Kirkpatrick nodded solemnly and stared at the camera as if collecting his thoughts. "Ms. Fields, I'd rather not comment on that part of the investigation, except to say that we believe we are moving closer to a resolution."

"Thank you, Sheriff Kirkpatrick, for your time this morning."

Marion aimed the remote control at the television and turned it off. "Oh, he annoys me no end. Such a showoff. He's just taking advantage of this whole thing to promote his reelection campaign."

"Mom, do I have to go to school today?"

"Yes, you do. Just don't react to any taunts and don't get into any fights. You know who you are, and you're certainly not a murderer." She put a hand on his shoulder. "Just because your knife was used in a crime isn't enough evidence to arrest you. They need a stronger link." Marion smiled. "So don't worry."

The school day wasn't much better than the one before. Will felt the stares and heard the whispers. He saw Claude Kirkpatrick in class and from across the lunchroom, but they kept their distance from each other. There was something else, too, something unexpected. Some of the kids seemed genuinely afraid of him. He could see it in their eyes.

In the afternoon, he went to the computer lab on his study hour, where he sometimes went before his regular computer class. As he sat down, Aaron Thomas stood up from one of the other cubicles and walked over to him. "I heard what happened in the parking lot. I just want you to know that I think Claude is acting like a real jerk."

Speak for yourself,
Will thought. He shrugged. "It's over now."

"Listen, I'm sorry about that thing with the coach. If you want me to tell him I called the play, I'll do it."

"Forget it," Will muttered.

"Okay." Aaron slapped him on the back and walked down the aisle to his cubicle.
What was that about?
Will wondered. Aaron was tough to figure out. One moment, he could be treacherous, the next fairly decent.

He pushed away his thoughts of Aaron and logged onto the system. Three letters awaited him in E-mail. A message said:

DO YOU WANT TO READ YOUR MAIL NOW?

He hesitated, then hit the letter Y for yes. The first message was brief and unsigned.

WILL, WILL. YOU'RE SO BAD, BAD. WE'RE SO MAD, MAD.

The second one was followed by initials.

I DON'T BELIEVE WHAT THEY'RE SAYING ABOUT YOU, WILL. I'M SURE YOU'D NEVER HURT ANYONE.

C. R.

He puzzled over the initials for a minute, but couldn't place them with anyone he knew. At the top of both notes was the word USER, but no name.

LANSA (RUNNER), his handle, was at the top of the next letter. It appeared that he'd written it to himself, but he hadn't written it at all.

I KNOW WHY, WILL,

WITHOUT A DOUBT.

SHE WASN'T TRUE

AND YOU FOUND OUT.

YOUR FANZ

He rolled his chair back from the cubicle and waved to Charlie Baines.

"Take a look at this, Charlie."

Baines, who was wearing the same rumpled clothes he'd worn yesterday, bent over Will's computer and read the message. Then, wrinkling his nose, he studied the series of numbers, letters, and symbols above the rhyme. "Someone's got your new entry code already. That's very interesting."

"Let me show you something else." Will brought up the other two letters to his screen again. "These have the same handle: USER. Who's that?"

"Okay, these were both written on one of the generics."

"What do you mean?"

"Anyone can use a computer in here on their study hour. You're taking a computer course, so you've got a code. But if you come here on study hour and just want to use a computer, you don't get a personal code. If you want to send something E-mail, you get the generic USER handle. You can change it, if you want, but they didn't."

"So there's no way of finding out who wrote those two letters."

"Well, everyone is supposed to sign in. I'd say we get about a couple of dozen people a day using the generics. But the thing is, they don't always sign in, especially if they're only here for a few minutes."