Stone Butterfly (28 page)

During the past several months, Sidewinder had found himself a new friend, who went by the name of Sweet Alice. The Columbine hound often spent the predawn hour out on a run with the outlaw mare, as was the case on this particular morning, when they had taken their exercise along the shore of the alpine lake.

After a vigorous workout that made the horse sweat and the dog pant (dogs are not permitted to sweat), they were moving along at an easier gait. As the odd couple loped along the prairie past Father Raes's cabin and entered the dense strip of forest on the rocky ridge above the Columbine headquarters, the hound caught a whiff of a scent that went distinctly against the canine grain. Sweet Alice watched while Sidewinder paused in midstride, held a right front paw poised above a fallen aspen branch, which in death wore a shroud of bright green moss. Unlike the ferns, neither aspen branch nor green moss would have an important role in what was about to happen, but minor players deserve to be mentioned. What about the ferns?

Only yards away, something was rustling the ferns.

The horse's eyes were wide, but more with curiosity than alarm.

The descendant of wolves—who had twice tangled with mountain lions—waited for the appearance of the age-old enemy. Sidewinder had never backed away from a fight.

With a suddenness that almost took the old dog's breath away, it appeared. Stared back at him with an impudent black-and-white face.

A low growl rumbled under the hound's ribs. A brush of coarse hair bristled along his neck.

The reckless cat arched his back—hissed like a snake about to strike.

Sidewinder lowered his head, bared yellowed teeth, made ready for the deadly lunge.

Something else appeared in the shadows. The presence was a few paces behind the cat, and barely visible in the morning mists. Though the lips did not move, her thin young face spoke to the hound.
Please don't hurt my cat.

The formidable beast was completely disarmed.

Sensing an opportunity, Mr. Zig-Zag approached the dog with dainty, fastidious steps, rubbed his neck against the gentled adversary. Purred.

Sweet Alice—known for her equine sense of humor—snickered a derisive whinny.

Sidewinder groaned, looked away.

A perceptive observer would have concluded that the dog was embarrassed.

Late That Evening, at the Priest's Cabin

During his second night at home Father Raes Delfino had not heard a sound, but when he awoke with a start and sat straight up in bed—she was there. Close enough to reach out and touch. On this occasion, he did not reach for his spectacles or switch on the light. Neither did he speak. What this wise man did was wait. And listen.

The priest heard the most astonishing confession.

When she had finished her whispers, the judicious cleric weighed his words before responding. “You're absolutely certain that you have killed a man?”

A nod.

“Do you wish to explain the circumstances?”

She stared at the floor.

“Very well.” Father Raes assumed the stern expression. “But you must understand—taking the life of another human is a
most
serious sin.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “The first thing you must do is repent. Then, you must ask for God's forgiveness.” He added: “And I will pray for your soul.”

Tonapah Flats, Utah

Knuckle-Dragger number Two was sitting in his truck, which was parked in the dark among a cluster of willows that also concealed an abandoned trailer home and the rotting carcass of a horse that a city hunter had mistaken for an elk. Having no one else to talk to, the chronic complainer muttered his grievances to himself: “Oates sure expects a helluva lot for his money. The cheap bastard starts out with ‘Go and see if the Indian kid is holed up at such-and-such a place' and we agree on a price and then he commences to adding on chores like ‘Oh, and by the way, there's a couple of other little things I'd like for you to take care of.' And so I end up sitting out here in the stinking boonies waiting for the man Oates wants killed and buried.”
And he's a sure-enough
dangerous
man. I shoulda asked for an extra thousand.
After scowling at the gravel lane that dead-ended at a run-down apartment building, the malcontent checked the dashboard clock.
He oughta been here an hour ago.

Having nothing else to do, the brutish man reached for the sawed-off shotgun, broke it down, ejected a pair of red shells, put them back in again, snapped the double barrels shut. Then did it again. And again. It helped to pass the time.

When Miss Katcher tapped tentatively on his door, Sheriff Ned Popper was engrossed in a confidential wiretap report. “Come on in, Bertha.”

The dispatcher, who had been losing weight, and looked more haggard with each passing day, stuck her sagging face into his office. “Shurf Pokker, there's an out-a-town lawyer here to see you.”

He arched a bushy eyebrow. “He have a name?”

“I forgot to ask him.” Being more or less a literalist, she added: “But I imagine he must have.”

“Send him in.” The duly elected sheriff of Tonapah Flats got to his feet.

The visitor's shoulders filled the doorway; his gray suit, pale-yellow silk shirt, sky-blue tie hinted at money and power. His beefy demeanor suggested an off-duty lumberjack masquerading as a man of business. The enigma presented a genuine smile, stuck out a bear-size paw. “I'm Bruce Staples. Of Arnette, Fagan, Jarvis, Staples, Gish, Bullock, and Armstrong. Our firm is in Salt Lake.”

Popper smiled at the center of the totem pole, shook his hand. “Rest your bones, Mr. Staples.”

“Thanks—don't mind if I do.” The attorney plopped into an armchair, cuddled an alligator briefcase on his lap.

“And by the way, my name's Popper—with three
P
's.”

Bruce Staples chuckled. “I know your name, Sheriff. Ben Silver told me all about you.”

Uh-oh—what's this about?
“So you knew Ben?”

“Indeed I did. Both as a client, and a friend.”

Sheriff Popper waited for the other boot to drop.

Mr. Staples was not a man to waste words or ticks of the clock. “Ben came to see me exactly six days before his death.”

The size-fifteen footwear fell with a sizable thud.

“He had me draw up a new will. Being brief and to the point, it was keyed into the computer, printed out, signed, witnessed, and notarized before he left my office.” The efficient attorney sensed the expected questions forming behind the lawman's craggy face, answered every one of them. “I would have contacted you immediately after his untimely demise, but the day after my meeting with Ben I left on a trip to Argentina. I returned yesterday, and read my client's obituary in the newspaper.” There was a hesitation, as if Staples was searching for precisely the right words to string together. “Given the circumstances, it is necessary that you and I have a face-to-face.”

The sheriff spoke softly under the handlebar mustache. “Was Ben expecting someone to make an attempt on his life?”

Staples shook his head. “But he did express some concern about his deteriorating health.”

Popper popped the obvious question. “So who'd Ben leave his stuff to?”

“As for the bulk of his estate, I am not authorized to reveal that information at this time.” The attorney removed a black plastic folder from his briefcase. “But I am instructed to inform you about the deceased's wishes concerning the disposition of a particular item of personal property.” Turning to page two of the document, Staples cleared his throat, read Paragraph VI, lines sixteen through twenty-four.

Popper's jaw dropped, hung on its hinges.

Probably because the attorney owned a quarter-share in a prosperous Caterpillar dealership, the sheriff's gaped mouth suggested a 966D Cat front-end loader about to scoop up a few cubic yards of rubble. Smiling at the high-horsepower metaphor, Mr. Staples snapped the briefcase shut, vaulted up from the chair, glanced at his wristwatch. “I'd like to stay and chat, but I have urgent business back in the city.” On the way out of Popper's office, he rotated the lumberjack shoulders, looked back at the mute lawman. “I almost forgot. You are authorized—encouraged, in fact—to communicate the information about Ben's personal-property bequest to his half brother Raymond Oates.” With that, he closed the door behind him.

For a long interval, Popper stared at the oak door.
I just don't believe it. Why on earth would Ben—

The telephone on his desk jangled the lawman back to reality.

He heard himself say: “Hello.”

“Who's this?”

“Uh—Sheriff Pokker.”
Dammit, now she's got me doing it!
“I mean
Popper.
”

“Well, I wanted to speak to Deputy Packard, but I guess it's better to talk to the top dog.”
Even if the dimwit ain't sure what his name is.

“Who's calling?”

“This is Hank Bigbee, from Cut Bank, Colorado. But you can call me Buddy.”

Sheriff Popper propped his elbows on his desk. “What can I do for you, Buddy?”

“Well, you can let me know if you was able to use that tip I passed on to Deputy Packard about the Indian girl.”

Popper barely suppressed a groan, found a ballpoint pen. “What tip was that?”
We only had about a thousand.

“Why me and Tillie—Tillie's my wife—we saw that kid in Cortez. Cat and all.”

The sheriff doodled a stick-legged cat on his desk pad. “You did, huh?”

“Sure as July follows June.” Bigbee repeated the story he'd told the deputy. “And if you pick her up at her Aunt Daisy's place on the Southern Ute res, me and Tillie damn well expect to get that big re-ward.”

Aunt Daisy?
Popper paused in mid-doodle. There hadn't been anything in the news releases about Charlie Moon's aunt. “Would you please repeat that, Mr. Bigbee?”

“Hey, no need to Mister me—I'm just plain Buddy.” But Just Plain Buddy repeated what he had said. About Aunt Daisy and the big re-ward.

“And the first time you called, you told Deputy Packard exactly what you just told me?”

“Sure did. Practically word for word.”

And Packard made a beeline straight for the Southern Ute reservation.

“And your deputy said he'd put my name on the list.” A rasping smoker's cough. “And we oughta be first in line for that big re-ward, 'cause I didn't fiddle-faddle around—I called on the same day we saw that Indian girl, which was on the morning after she murdered that old fella in Tonapah Flats.” Buddy listened to a shouted reminder from his wife. “Will you check to see that our name's on the re-ward list—mine and Tillie's?”

“You can count on it.” Popper made a note of the caller's telephone number. “If this information turns out to be useful in helping us locate this girl, I'll make certain you get whatever's coming to you.”

“Thanks.” Another yell from the wife. “Oh, one last thing—Tillie said to tell you the kid called her cat Zig-Zag.”

Like any capable small-town politician, the sheriff knew the names of all of his constituents, and 90 percent of their pets.
Well, that puts the butter on the biscuit.
The Utah lawman thanked the helpful Colorado citizen and hung up.
Tate Packard withheld critical information related to a homicide investigation, which means if he ain't stone-cold dead when I find him, I'll make him wish he was.
The furious man was jamming his hat on his head when the dispatcher elbowed her way past him, plopped her massive self into an armchair. “Shurf Pokker, I gotta talk to you.”

This happened about once every month. Bertha's worry-motor generally cranked up with a sputtering of rumors and complaints, finally chugged to a stop with a threat to quit and find a better job
somewheres else.
He eyeballed the clock on the wall. “I'm kinda busy right now. Could it keep for a little while?”

The woman shook her head in a defiant gesture, suggesting an innate stubbornness an Arkansas mule would have admired.

Popper pushed the hat back on his head, seated himself on the corner of his desk. “Okay, but don't take too long.”

Looking over his shoulder, she frowned at a wall calendar that featured a color print of a lovable beagle puppy licking the face of an equally lovable kitten. “Shurf, we got troubles.”

He watched the ceiling fan, which—like the second hand on the wall clock—seemed to be slowing. “What is it this time—somebody been pilfering nickels and dimes from the petty-cash jar?”

Another shake of her head. “It's lots worser'n that—we got
big
troubles.”

Drop by drop, his reservoir of patience was leaking away. “Please don't keep me in suspense.”

Katcher the Dispatcher turned her beady-eyed stare on the boss. “Bearcat didn't show up for work this mornin'.”

He stared at the enigmatic woman. “Bertha, that happens at least a couple times a month. If that's all you're worried about—”

“Bearcat ain't just not here—he's dista-peered!”

“Come again?”

“I did some checkin'.” She counted off one finger. “He didn't show up at his apartment last night.” Another finger. “And the manager says his bed ain't been slept in.”

“Well that just proves BC was out on an all-night toot. He'll probably wake up in a ditch somewhere with his head hurtin' so bad he'll wish he was dead and—”

“Shurf—Bearcat
is
dead!”

Despite her comical manner, this assertion jarred Popper. He assumed a gentler tone. “Why do you say that?”

“'Cause I
know
Bearcat's dead—I feel it in my bones.” Bertha hugged her considerable self, evidently confirming the message originating deep in her marrow. “And Tate Packard's dead too. Somebody drown-ded him in the river!” She closed her eyes, her massive body shook in a hideous shudder that threatened to wrench joint from limb.

“Now, now, Bertha.” He patted her on the shoulder.

When she had recovered from the shakes, the dispatcher looked Popper straight in the eye. “Shurf, somebody is killin' off our depitties. And they ain't done with their killin'.” She leaned toward the boss. “I figger I'm gonna be next!”

The sheriff recalled his late wife, and how the unfortunate woman had suffered every day of her life.
Poor Bertha must be having one of those peculiar problems women have with their innards.
He had no reliable knowledge of such matters and did not wish to be educated on the subject. “You worry too much.” Another pat. “Tell you what, you take the rest of the day off. Get yourself some rest.”

Another shake of the head. “That's what caused all this trouble in the first place.” The dispatcher gave the sheriff a guilty look. “That day that ol' Ben Silver was killed, I wasn't tendin' to my duties like I should've been. If I hadn't been runnin' back and forth to the toilet, why Mr. Silver would be alive today.”

“Bertha, we can all think of things we might've done that would have made a difference.” He put on a smile that lifted the tips of the handlebar mustache. “Take me, for instance. If I'd got to Ben's place a couple of minutes sooner than I did, I might've been able to prevent the killing. And then there's the hand of Fate—if that big accident out on the interstate hadn't happened that morning, Ben would've been able to see his doctor at the clinic, and he wouldn't have come home early and surprised the girl.” He waited for this to sink through his dispatcher's inch-thick skull, but it was apparent that she was not listening to a word he'd said. Popper's eyes narrowed. “Bertha, I'm going to ask you a simple question, and I want you to tell me the unvarnished truth.”

To avoid the lawman's steely glaze, the dispatcher hung her head.

Popper was not deterred. “Have you been reading more of them crime-fiction books they sell down at the newsstand?”

“No.” A shrug. “Well, maybe.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“Okay.” A sniff. “Ever once in a while I might read one.” She jutted her chin. “Maybe two or three a week. But that don't have nothin' to do with—”

“Yes it does, Bertha. The people that write that trash don't know a thing about actual crimes, or real police work. I've warned you before—you keep reading that awful stuff, it'll turn your brain to mush!”

The aficionado of excellent literary fiction was not to be intimidated. “This don't have a thing to do with what I read, Shurf Pokker.” The obstinate woman's head continued to shake, as if some internal motor would not shut off. “Mr. Silver's killin' and our murdered depitties—that's all my fault. Why I might as well done it with my own hands!” She glared at her employer. “And you might as well take off that silly hat and sit your skinny butt down behind your desk, 'cause you're goin' to hear me out.”

Defeated, Ned Popper hung up his hat, seated himself as directed. “Okay, Bertha. Get it off your chest.”

“I'll do just that.” In preparation for the task, she drew in a deep breath. “And after I tell you what I got to say, you'll understand why I can't work here anymore.”

The weary man leaned back in his chair, clasped hands behind his head, closed his eyes.
I oughta make a recording, so next time Bertha gets ants in her pants I could just play it back and we both could listen to it and save her the trouble of talking a blue streak 'til the cows come home.

Bertha Katcher made a slow start, gradually picked up the pace, finally got rolling under a full head of steam. The dispatcher didn't put on the brakes until she'd gotten to the end of the line.

The sheriff watched a brown beetle scuttling up the wall.
Compared to being a sworn officer of the law, I imagine them little bugs must live a fairly simple, peaceful life.

“Shurf Pokker, I'm really awfully sorry about—”

He groaned. “Bertha, Bertha—what am I gonna do with you?”
I could draw my .45-caliber revolver right here and now, shoot you between the eyes. But that'd be sure to stir up a lot of fuss.
He sighed.
And there'd be no end to the paperwork.