Stone Butterfly (11 page)

FBI special agent Lila Mae McTeague parked her car in the reserved space the Bureau had leased from the Cattleman's Bank, opened the rear door to the narrow stairwell, clicked her heels up the twenty-four steps, entered the long hallway, counted off five paces to her corner office door. The recently installed electronic combination lock displayed three light-emitting diodes, all in a row. If during her absence the dial had been turned as much as six degrees in either direction, the orange light would be on. If the microwave motion detector inside the office had been tripped, a red light would be flashing. The high-tech lock was showing a comforting green; all was well. She twirled the dial four times to enter the combination, pressed the black button at the hub, turned the shiny brass doorknob, entered her two hundred square feet of work space. The time was precisely seven
A.M
.

McTeague was one of the federal government's most dedicated and efficient employees. Within minutes, she had called the Durango field office to notify a computer of her arrival in the “temporary” Granite Creek office, made a pot of coffee, checked sixteen e-mails, trashed all but three. At half past the hour, she logged onto the Bureau's official site, typed in her password, clicked on the
DAILY CRIME REPORT
icon. When the window opened, she went to the Region menu, clicked on Southwest. The first report was on last night's Indian casino robbery just north of Santa Fe. The second described a kidnapping of a woman in Flagstaff. McTeague had heard reports on the ten o'clock news, and gave the briefings a quick scan. It was the third report that piqued her interest.

McTeague scanned the second page, then read the terse report two more times, hoping to glean something beyond the sparse information contained in the few words.
There is something familiar about the father's name.
She selected the
DEPT JUSTICE
Database menu, clicked on General Search, typed
PROVO FRANK
into the
SEARCH
rectangle, watched a miniature hourglass fill with electronic sand. The file, including color images, was 155 megabytes. She transferred it to her hard disc.
I'll read it later. What I want to know right now is…
She typed in
CHARLES MOON
, initiated the document search. More sand sifting through the hourglass, then—
Bingo!

The FBI agent downloaded several other confidential files, made a call to a talkative contact in the Bureau's Salt Lake office, another to the Tonapah Flats Sheriff's Office. After this flurry of early morning activity, the lady sat behind her desk, mulling over what she had learned. There was a final call to make. She hesitated.

When the telephone interrupted his morning routine, Charlie Moon was washing his breakfast dishes, singing “Good Morning, Sun” loudly and slightly off-key. He strode down the hall, into the parlor, picked up the instrument on the third ring. “Columbine Ranch.” The voice that vibrated the membrane in his right ear canal made him smile.

“Charlie, I'm sorry to call so early, but I picked up something in the Bureau's Daily Crime Report that might interest you.”

He leaned against the chinked-log wall. “Aside from cattle rustling, why would I be interested in crime?”

“Well, for one thing—your name popped up.”

“Whatever it is, I didn't do it. And even if I did, I've got a dozen hired hands that'll swear I was playing straight poker with all fifteen of 'em when it—”

“Shut up and listen.”

“When you sweet-talk me like that, I can't help but do whatever you say.”

Agent McTeague read the report verbatim. After completing the recitation, she waited. Nothing.

The Ute was gazing through the parlor window. All the joy of the morning had slipped away.
I should have kept in touch with Provo's little daughter. Made sure she was all right. How many years has it been since I last saw her—

“Charlie—are you there?”

“I am.” He wished he were not.

“When I saw the father's name, I realize you were acquainted with him.”

“Provo Frank was my close friend.” The Ute sounded older than his years.

“I see.”
That wasn't in the file.
“And his daughter Sarah—I assume you must have met her.”

He nodded at the woman who was some forty-odd miles away in Granite Creek. “Yeah.”

From the leaden tone, McTeague knew the answer to her next question. “I suppose you'll be going to Tonapah Flats.”

“That's right.”

“Mind if I come along?”

“I don't mind,” Moon mumbled.

The highly organized federal employee checked the time, estimated how quickly she could shut down the computer, lock the file cabinet and hall door, get to her Ford sedan. “I'll be there in fifty-five minutes. An hour at the outside.”

“Don't break any speed limits, McTeague.”
There's no big hurry. Whatever Sarah's done is history.
Charlie Moon hung up the telephone, hung his head, stared at the varnished oak floor as if he had never seen it before. The long-legged man cocked his right boot. His earnest intention was to kick a wicker trash basket across the parlor. He hesitated.
That would be a dumb thing to do. And I don't want to start off the day by doing something dumb.
He kicked it. Hard.

Charlie Moon called his elderly aunt. Told Daisy Perika where he was headed. And why.

As her nephew unloaded his bad news, the tribal elder listened with uncharacteristic patience.
I knew it. Sarah has killed that old man.
Making no reference to her series of bad dreams, Daisy muttered: “Soon as you know something, call me.”

Those privileged few who are accustomed to riding in the comfort of a luxury automobile, such as a Rolls-Royce Silver Seraph or Mercedes-Benz SL65 AMG, may be interested to know that designers of horse trailers do not invest excessive attention to the issue of suspension. Indeed, these conveyances are apt to bounce and buck like some of the more spirited equine stock transported therein. Furthermore, the interiors tend to smell a certain way, and it is not like the sweet essence of wild roses in late May, but more like the terminal end of a herbivorous quadruped which processes hay—despite the fact that horse trailers are usually well ventilated. This is relevant, because the early morning hours of Sarah Frank's journey were bitterly cold. It was the most awful ride she had ever had in her life. When the green pickup finally pulled to a stop, the girl was very angry at having been so abused for so many hours. Sarah also harbored serious doubts that she would ever be able to walk again, but using the horse's tail for assistance, she got up onto stiff legs, made her way to the rear of the stinky trailer, unlatched the double gate. She paused only long enough to address the host passenger. “I'm sorry for saying I'd punch you in the eye. I didn't really mean it. It's just that…” She sighed. “Well, yesterday was a
really
bad day for me.” She patted the mare's neck. “Good-bye.”
I wish you were my horse.

As she latched the steel gate, the owner of the pickup and trailer and horse happened by. Maintaining his customary form of speech, Mr. Bigbee yelled, “Hey, Half-Pint! What're you doin' there—messin' around with my livestock?”

Since yesterday morning, Sarah was a changed girl. Bold as a week-old colt, she gazed brazenly at the big rancher, pointed at the black mare. “Is she for sale?”

Lapsing into a thoughtful silence, he gave the unlikely buyer a cursory once-over. “She might be—for the right price.” The rough old horse trader snorted. “How much you got in your sock?”

Sarah heard her mouth say: “You mean money?”

“No, kid—I mean pop-bottle caps.” He grinned at her puzzled expression. “A-course I mean money. So how much
diñero
d'you want to spend on a bronc?”

The girl in the tattered dress smiled hopefully. “Would five hundred dollars be enough?”

Like you got five hundred bucks.
“Not while there's a breath a life in my body, Small-Fry.” He jerked his chin to indicate the animal under discussion. “I would not even think a lettin' go a this fine piece a horse-flesh for a dime less than…” He scratched at the stubble of two-day-old beard. “Than twelve hundred.”

Sarah's voice was hoarse. “Twelve hundred
dollars
?”

“No, Missy. Twelve hundred
porky-pine ears.
” Highly amused with his inimitable wit, “Buddy” Hank Bigbee leaned backward like a willow in a hard wind, let out a brayish “Haw-haw-haw.” Straightening his spine, he glared at the girl. “Tell you what. You throw in that fleabag of a cat, I'll knock off—maybe thirty-two cents from the price.” Another string of haw-haws. He also slapped his thigh, and tears rolled down his leathery cheeks.

The girl's dark eyes flashed. “Mr. Zig-Zag don't have any fleas!”

He regained just enough composure to reply: “Zig-Zag, huh? That's a funny name for a cat.”

Sarah was about to offer a response when Mrs. Bigbee showed up. The woman gave her husband The Look, which took all the wind out of his sails. “Buddy, are you teasin' this sweet little girl?” The Look made it clear that he damn well better not be doing no such thing.

The sly look slipped off Buddy's face and down his collar. “Oh no, Sugar-Cake—I was just trying to close a deal.” He cleared his throat, pointed a wiener-sized finger at Sarah Frank. “Tillie, this kid wants to buy Clara Belle.”