Skorpio (13 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

"Grampa Ned"

Summer met Grampa Ned Lead when she was five years old. Her father brought her to the medicine man to be blessed. Grandpa Ned was ancient even then and smelled of Latakia and mints. He had a pet wolf amed Wolfie and lived in a hogan.

Over the years Summer would often seek Grampa Ned out for advice. She couldn't ask Joe or Maria whose own lives were turbulent, and often the source of her distress. She needed Grampa's wisdom now.

Last night the banger to whom she'd sold the Camaro drove her home and helped unload the groceries she'd bought in Bosselman's. Ethan was still up playing video games, a haze of marijuana hovering smog-like around his head. He barely looked as she carried the paper bags into the house.

"Ja get any beer?" he said.

"Sixpack Dos Equis."

Ethan set down the yoke and walked over to the kitchen. He peeled off a can and popped it.

"Hey, is Grampa Ned still around?" Summer said.

Ethan shrugged and returned to his seat. "Fuck if I know."

Summer crashed in her old bedroom. Ethan slept on the sofa. In the morning Summer made coffee and took Maria a cup. Maria sat up and was feeling better. She had been tired as long as Summer could remember. Allergies in the summer, fighting off a flu in the winter.

"Hey Ma, Grampa Ned still around?"

"Far as I know, honey. I saw him at the county fair last year. That man doesn't age. Did you get my Four Roses?"

"In the kitchen."

"God bless you, you're a good girl."

Promising she would say goodbye before she took off Summer left the trailer and walked to Joe Jeffords' place. Good as his word, Joe had four recapped tires in the back of his Chevy. He and Summer rode back to the Funderburk manse, around back where Arthur's 150 sat. Joe went to work. At ten o'clock it was already in the eighties. Summer went in the house, made a pitcher of lemonade and brought Joe a glass. She took a glass to Maria.

Maria drank thirstily and set it on the bedside table next to a half dozen amber plastic pill bottles. Maria suffered from high blood pressure and fibromyalgia. "Thank you, dear. Where did you say you were going?"

"I don't know, Ma. I got something for you." Summer took out her wallet and counted out three hundred bucks in twenties which she laid in Maria's lap. Maria picked it up hungrily.

"What's this for?"

"Food, booze, bills, whatever."

Maria's eyes narrowed. "You ain't trickin' again?"

"No, Ma. I quit that shit. I'm not going to let a man control me ever again. Listen. It's possible Vince will show up. If he does, call the Sheriff. Don't fuck around. He's a mean son of a bitch."

Maria looked alarmed. "Why would he come here?"

"Because I walked out on him and took his car."

Maria flinched. "Oh honey. Why did you do that?"

"I had to get away fast, Ma. He beat me like a rented mule. No man does that to me."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"Oh Ma."

"Well I don't have a phone."

"What about Ethan?"

Maria nodded hesitantly. "I think so. But I don't have the number.

Summer rolled her eyes.

From out back they heard the grind of a starter motor. Seconds later the old Ford roared to life and Summer clapped her hands in delight.

"Ma, I'm borrowing Pa's truck."

"Ain't got no insurance. Those plates are no good."

"That's all right. Gotta go. I'll talk to you soon."

"Ain't got no telephone."

"Ethan does. I'll be back." Summer leaned over and kissed her mother.

In the living room she sat next to Ethan, who was deep in battle. "Listen little bro, if my boyfriend shows up here call the police."

Ethan worked the yoke. "What?"

Summer grabbed the yoke. Ethan turned toward her with outrage. "Give it back!"

"Listen! If Vince shows up here looking for me call the police! Do you understand? Do you know how to dial 911?"

Ethan pouted. "Ain't no 911 out here."

"Well call the sheriff. Do you copy?"

"Yeah, yeah. Gimme the controls back."

Fifteen minutes later she was on the road with her meager belongings including the contents of the Camaro's trunk, the Beretta a hard chunk in her front pants pocket.

Grampa Ned lived at the end of a winding box canyon. Summer slowed way down and eased the old truck over mailbox-sized boulders, up a dry wadi beneath a couple turkey vultures circling in the azure sky. As she rounded a hairpin curve two turkey vultures took off flapping from a mound of carrion. It was a harsh country. It was best not to look too closely. Might have been a lamb from a nearby ranch or somebody's dog.

One hour and twenty minutes after leaving Hava Summer topped a gentle rise and saw Grampa's hogan snugged up against the canyon wall, a couple cottonwood sprouting from a hidden spring. Grampa sat in front of the odd structure in a lawn chair in shades and a Cardinals hat puffing on a pipe, a buddha-like figure. An old mongrel lay at his feet on a carpet segment. The hogan was actually a geodesic dome put up by some college kids who'd volunteered for Habitat for Humanity decades ago. Two glass triangles, hinged on one side and open, acted as skylights. The thing was surfaced in roofing shingles and about as attractive as a garage but it got the job done.

Summer drove to within thirty feet of the house, parked and got out. She wore sunglasses and had coaxed her long black hair through the back of a Not Lame ball cap she'd found in the truck.

"Hey Grampa."

The old man exhaled a cloud of smoke like the College of Cardinals. The dog thumped its tail. Summer knelt and stroked its head.

"Hey Boner."

"Hey Summer Funderburk," Grampa growled. "Ain't seen you in years. How you doing? Come set with your old Grampa. Got root beer inside. Why don'tcha bring me one too."

She went into the hogan. It was laid out like a studio apartment with only the bathroom walled off. The great room had several navajo rugs on the concrete floor, an old wood-burning stove against one wall, and mismatched thrift store furniture. It smelled of Latakia and bacon grease. Tufts of dog hair lay on the rugs.

She retrieved two Dad's from the ice box, went out front, handed one to Grampa and sat in the lawn chair next to him. Snugged up against the east wall they were still shielded by the morning sun.

"You're looking good," Grampa said. "Whatchoo been up to?"

"Working as a showgirl in Vegas."

"Ahuh. How that working out?"

"Not too well."

They sat in silence for several minutes sipping root beer.

"Grampa, I got a problem."

"I know."

She looked at the old man, gaze unreadable behind the wrap-around Foster Grants. "How did you know?"

"Been dreamin' about you."

***

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

"The Bones"

"What did you dream?" Summer said.

"You're running from some white man."

"That's true! How much do you know?"

"Child, I don't know shit. You're out in the sun. Something's chasing you. That's all I know. Why don'tcha tell me about your troubles and then we'll cast the bones."

Summer told him everything since moving to Vegas. "I'm afraid he'll kill me."

She waited for Grampa to respond. He tapped the bowl of the pipe down on the edge of a rock, reached into his brocade vest, pulled out a tobacco pouch and refilled the pipe. He lit it with a kitchen match from another pocket. He puffed and blew a series of perfect smoke rings that hung in the still desert air like UFOs.

"Well let's take a look at the bones," he said, placing his hands on his knees and heaving himself to his feet. He was five six and weighed 185. He returned a moment later with a dice canister from Harrah's. He sat with a grunt and handed Summer the canister.

"Shake 'em."

Summer shook the canister hearing the rattle of tiny bones inside and handed it to Grampa. He added a shake and prodded Boner with his toe.

"Move it, Boner." The old dog got stiffly to its feet and resettled itself at Summer's feet. Grampa unscrewed the lid and tossed the bones on the carpet segment. Eleven tiny bones gathered from eagle, coyote and rattlesnake. They fell in an odd pattern which could easily pass for art were someone to photograph them, or glue them as they lay to a backboard.

Grampa leaned forward with his hands on knees and grunted. He sucked air through his teeth. He turned to Summer and took off his glasses. His gray eyes were twinkly blue tucked beneath an occipital ledge.

"You're headed for some kinda Gotterdammerung."

Summer blinked. "What's that?"

"This here's bigger than just you and this white man. This here involves Shipapu."

"Shipapu. What's that?"

"Shipapu the gateway between this world and the next. Shipapu the font of life. You're on the great north road now headed toward Shipapu."

Summer's forehead contracted. "What does it mean?"

"I don't know but lookit here." Grampa pointed to a formation of four tiny bones off to the side. "This here says you're gonna meet the ghost who walks in the sun."

Despite the heat Summer felt a copperhead ripple down her spine. "Who is the ghost who walks in the sun?"

The old man gazed into the distance. "When the Spanish came they encountered a tribe whose name we do not know. Sun worshipers, a warlike people. Their leader was a giant. The Spaniards used a woman to capture him. They gouged out his eyes and tied him to a wagon wheel and left him to die in the sun. His mother cursed the Spaniards with snakes and scorpions which rose up out of the earth and killed them all. But when they went to retrieve their leader's corpse it was not there. It is said that Skorpio only appears beneath a blazing sun and still seeks vengeance against the white man."

He shrugged. "It's just a tale."

"What did you say his name was?"

"I said it once. I want you to know. But it's bad luck to name the dead. You know that."

"I was hoping you could give me some advice."

"Well now it ain't all bad. See here?" He pointed to a coyote's tarsal lying inside a section of rattlesnake ribs. "You can defeat the ghost who walks in the sun if you're in the Shipapu."

"How do I find this Shipapu?"

Grampa shrugged. "It will find you. You can run but you cannot hide."

Summer suddenly remembered the map. She got up. "I want to show you something."

She retrieved the map from the truck and spread it out on the baking sand in front of Grampa/'s boots. He placed his hands on his knees and bent forward fighting his belly. He grunted and stared at the map. His finger traced lines in the air.

"Where you get this?"

"It was in the trunk of Vince's car. Probably something he stole."

"This is a map of that nameless land." He pointed to the odd looking rock formation in the center. "Here is where you want to go."

"Where is that, Grampa? I looked at my
Rand McNally
and I can't find anyplace like this map in it."

"You get the
Arizona Atlas and Gazeteer
. That's a better book. You'll be able to find it then. See these landmarks?" He pointed at a mitten-shaped butte. "This here's Monument Valley."

"But why has no one found anything? They must have flown over it a thousand times. Mapped it from space, I don't know."

"They weren't looking. From space it just looks like the surrounding desert. This is where you have to go. Take plenty of water."

"Well shit. Why don't we drink hemlock."

Grampa Ned patted her knee. "Don't fret little sister. See this here?" He pointed to the bones. "Says here you will find a champion."

Summer laughed. "I've been waiting all my life. I always manage to pick the loser. God I have made terrible choices with men."

"The Lord helps those who help themselves. You packin'?"

Summer reached into her pocket and withdrew the Beretta. She handed it to Grampa who turned it over in his hands and handed it back.

"Mm-hm. That's a real peashooter. I can loan you my .45 if you like."

"Will it fit in my pants pocket?"

"Might cause a lump."

"No thanks, Grampa. Is a bullet gonna stop this ghost?"

Grampa shrugged. "Don't think so. It's for the boyfriend. That little peashooter ain't gonna get it done."

Maybe Ned Lead was right. Maybe she needed a gun with stopping power. She'd heard Vince go off with his druggie pals on what was the best hand weapon. Strictly for personal defense you understand. Stupid conversations about calibers and muzzle velocities.

An old boyfriend had taken her shooting. "Always aim for the greatest body mass and keep firing until you're out."

If eight .25 caliber bullets couldn't stop him fuck it. Besides. Grampa said she would find a champion.

"I'd just dislocate my shoulder. I don't know where to go."

"You can stay here," Grampa said.

She thought about it. Maria knew where she was. Vince was bound to track down Maria who couldn't keep her mouth shut to save her own daughter if Vince bought her a bottle.

"I appreciate that, Grampa. But I got to keep moving. You're not my champion."

The old man shook his head sadly. "No I ain't. But wait a minute. I want to give you something." He heaved himself up out of the chair and went in the house. She heard him moving things around and grunting. He came out holding a leather thong from which hung a hammered silver disc with turquoise in the center. He put it around her neck.

"Wear this. Might bring you some luck."

Summer turned the disc up in her hand. A series of squiggly lines radiated from a turquoise in the center. "What is it?"

"Been in the family many years. My great great Grampa Orrin said it was the mark of the lost tribe and no harm would come to him who wore it. That's true because my brother Carl wore it all throughout World War II and no harm come to him. And he was in the Pacific."

Summer stood and kissed the old man on the forehead. "Thanks, Grampa."

"De nada," he said.

***

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"Ute Must Be Served"

Beadles arrived Durango Friday June 16 shortly before noon. He took a room at the Morrison Motel a half mile north of the city on 550. It was ninety-two when he took up residence with his laptop and a bottled water in Brookside Park, across Main Street from the Post Office. Durango was a small city of 17,000 nestled among the San Juan Mountains. The scenery blew Beadles away. The way the mountains towered over the town instead of vice versa, like Chicago, where the city towered over the lake.

Beadles' plan was to watch PO visitors and wait for Anatole to show. He planned to follow Anatole at a discreet distance until he followed him home. He was prepared to do whatever was necessary to get the janitor to recant his testimony. More importantly he wanted to know why.

Why did Anatole stick his neck out on such a controversial matter? Why did he quit and take early retirement?

First day: zipco. The PO closed at five-thirty. Beadles grabbed a sandwich from the San Juan Cafe, holed up in his hotel room and watched
Return of a Man Called Horse
on cable. He was at his station by eight Saturday morning in time to see the local postmaster unlock the red brick building. At least it would only be a half day. Anatole might not come to town for a week. Beadles was prepared for that. Anatole had to come sometime to pick up his check. The university. Social Security. Maybe a check from the Ute Nation, residuals from their casinos.

There was no internet service in the park. Beadles tentatively began to write a monograph on the Azuma intertwined with his personal history. He pissed in the bushes, afraid to leave his spot. They could add public indecency to his jacket.

Shortly after eleven a battered, sand-colored Chevy pick-up pulled up in front of the Post Office and parked diagonally to the curb. An Indian kid with a shock of crow black hair got out and bounded into the PO holding his keys in his hand.

Rory? Beadles had only seen his picture once. Boy on a pony. A wave of recognition flowed through. Beadles hustled to his Jeep which was parked around the corner on 2nd, and had barely pulled up to the stop sign when Rory bounded down the steps, got in his truck and headed south out of town. Beadles saw boxes and grocery bags jouncing in the bed. The PO must have been the kid's last stop.

Beadles waited until the truck was two blocks ahead before pulling out. Traffic was light. Twelve miles south of town on 550 they entered the Southern Ute Reservation. A brown Toyota separated the pick-up from Beadles. The Toyota turned east on 160 and now it was just the two of them. There was no place to hide on the twisting mountain highway. The curves prevented Beadles from being seen in Rory's rear-view but sooner or later the road would straighten out. Beadles' luck would end when the boy turned off the highway.

If he hung back out of sight he might get lost. Who knew how many homesteads there were up those winding dirt roads? Two miles before the New Mexico border the truck turned west onto Deer Canyon Road. Beadles drove on a half mile before turning around in the middle of the highway and following Rory up the canyon.

Dust from the Chevy hovered over the rutted path. Beadles switched to four-wheel-drive and wallowed up the rutted road passing turn-offs sporting clusters of mailboxes affixed to four-by-six planks. There was a name affixed to each mailbox. No Cerveros. Six miles from the highway there were no more mailboxes.

Sage and Spanish bayonet dotted the arid landscape. A big buck bound across the trail in front of him. The road dipped and staggered between the hills until it finally dead-ended at a ranch carved out of a little plateau, one story ranch house in need of paint with a satellite dish, three horses in a corral, a horse barn, and the Chevy pick-up ticking in the front yard.

Rory leaned against the pick-up's tailgate arms crossed as if he were expecting someone. Beadles parked the Jeep and got out. An old border collie ran up to him, sniffed his pants and retreated to under the pick-up.

"Rory?" he said, "I'm…"

"I've been expecting you, Professor Beadles."

The kid came away from the truck and stuck out his hand. He looked impossibly young although he had to be eighteen. His grip was firm and strong.

"Your father home?" Beadles said.

"You're too late. My father killed himself two days ago."

***