Stone Butterfly (15 page)

Having tied a yard of cotton string onto Mr. Zig-Zag's Collar, Sarah Frank entered a convenience store. Going up and down the aisles, she selected a few necessities for the final leg of the trip: a bag of gummy bears, a package of sliced baloney, a small box of crackers, a twenty-four-ounce bottle of Pepsi-Cola. Having paid for these purchases from her change purse, the customer shyly asked the cashier for directions to the bus station.

Though reluctant to expend more than the minimum effort his job required, the sallow-faced youth was touched by the hopeful expectation shining in the girl's big brown eyes. Feeling more than a little manly, the little man advised the customer that “there ain't been no bus terminal in Cortez for years and years.” Glancing at her cat, he asked: “Where're you two headed?”

Having said too much to the people who owned the horse, the little fugitive was cautious. “On the other side of Durango.” Sarah added quickly: “I have family there.” Family. That was a sweet, heartwarming word. Like
home.

Assuming an older-brother attitude, the clerk propped his elbows on the counter, gave the skinny girl a thorough inspection. “You look kinda young to be traveling by yourself.”

She bristled at this. “I'm older than I look.”

“Yeah, right.” A crooked grin exposed an excessive display of gums. “Whacher name?”

She hesitated. “Sarah.”

“I'm Otto.” A sly pause. “Otto Palindrome.” If the girl got the joke, there was no evidence he could see on her face. “Otto is what you call a palindrome, see—you spell it backward, it's the same.” To demonstrate, he spelled it. Backward. “o-t-t-O.”

The Ute-Papago girl stared at the peculiar young man until Mr. Palindrome blushed pink. “Tell you what, kid—you head down thataway—” Otto pointed to the south, “—until you get to the intersection where Route One-sixty veers off to your left. You oughta be able to catch a ride that'll take you to Durango, which is about forty-five miles.” He scratched at a thin growth of peach-fuzz on his chin. “A friend of mine makes a run to Durango almost every day. I'll tell him to be on the lookout for you.”

Sarah thanked him and departed. As she tugged Mr. Zig-Zag along on the end of the string, she considered the task ahead. Though never having hitchhiked, she was of the opinion that sticking your thumb out and actually asking for a ride would be a lot less effective than sneaking into a horse trailer. And more dangerous.
Some bad person might pick me up and murder me and cut my body up in little pieces and feed it to…
The girl shuddered, closed her eyes, and for just an instant—the
little window
opened and through it she could
see
her corpse being pecked on by hideous buzzards. But she just had to get to Aunt Daisy's home, and difficult times demand that a person take risks. She sucked in a bracing breath of the crisp morning air, called up a positive thought.
Maybe somebody nice will stop.
She imagined a kindly man and his pleasant wife, who would have a three-month-old baby in her arms. The woman would call Sarah “Honey” and offer her a dozen oatmeal-raisin cookies, but she would accept only one. Or two. Or maybe three if they were not so large. The nice lady would pet Mr. Zig-Zag and say, “That's a pretty cat, and it sure is a fine day to be hitchhiking.”
I'll probably be at Aunt Daisy's before dark. And even if she's in a grumpy mood, she'd never turn me away.
As Sarah passed a home-appliance store, she was astonished to see her face in the window. And it was not a reflection, this was an old black-and-white snapshot. In the still image, she was holding her cat and (with the sun in her eyes) trying to smile at Cousin Marilee's camera. Sarah could hear the TV announcer's voice booming through the open door.

“—Frank is being sought by the sheriff's office in Tonapah Flats, Utah as a ‘person of interest' in connection with yesterday's homicide.”

When Ben Silver's scowling face flashed on the screen—staring straight at
her
—Sarah dropped her small bag of groceries.

The unseen announcer continued: “After being brutally assaulted, Mr. Benjamin Silver was found in his home by Sheriff Ned Popper. The victim died shortly after naming the girl, who has not been seen since.”

Sheriff Popper's weather-beaten face appeared on the screen, talking into a SkyNews microphone. “We have reason to believe Sarah Frank has important information about Mr. Silver's death.” Ned rubbed at the bandaged bump on his head. “She's most likely still in the vicinity of Tonapah Flats, but it's possible she managed to get out of town, or even out of Utah. So if anyone sees a young lady matching the description we've provided, we hope they'll call the sheriff's office and let us know.” He went on to give a toll-free number, which wormed its way across the TV screen and under his chin. Popper faded and Sarah's photograph appeared again. The announcer stated that “The family of the deceased is offering a substantial cash reward for information about Miss Frank's whereabouts. Anyone who believes they have such information may call the toll-free number, which will connect them to the sheriff's office in Tonapah Flats.” The same 800-number inched across the screen again.

When she realized that her mouth was hanging open, and a red-faced man in the store was looking through the window at her, Sarah scooped up her cat, stuffed him in her backpack. She zipped the cover almost shut—leaving the startled creature just enough of a slit to breathe through. At this moment, a police car pulled into the parking lot between the small strip mall and the busy highway. She picked up the plastic grocery bag, did her best to look as if she had nothing at all to do but stroll along and window-shop. More than anything in the world, her thin legs wanted to run—carry her away like a leaf in the wind.

Sarah's heart did not stop racing until she had put almost a mile of Route 160 behind her.
If a police car stops and they ask me what I'm doing, I'll just say I went shopping and I'm walking home. If they ask where home is, I'll just point east and say over there.
She had put her thumb out twice, but to her dismay, both vehicles had zoomed past as if she was invisible. Sarah had considered praying for help, but decided it would be better not to take the chance. She reasoned that when you've done something
really
bad, like run away from home without telling Marilee (not to mention lots of other stuff she didn't even want to think about) God was bound to be mad at you. Leaving Him alone seemed more sensible than taking the risk of getting zapped by a stroke of lightning. As she was thinking these thoughts, the girl was trudging along beside the highway, paying no particular attention to the traffic.

A heavy cloud-curtain slipped between earth and sun. A treetop-high dust-devil sucked up a cubic yard of sand from a construction site, tossed a cardboard box across the road, swished her skirt around her knees, spit grit in her face. Mr. Zig-Zag let out a pitiful yowl. She pulled the elderly cat from her backpack, clutched him to her chest, attempted to soothe him with comforting words. She also whispered a few words to herself and, despite the presumed risk, to someOne else.
God—I'm sorry for the bad things I've done.
This was, of course, merely a preamble to an urgent request. She dared not make her petition out loud—that would be far too bold—but she dropped a mental hint that it would be helpful if
somebody nice would stop and give me a ride.

The miniature twister sauntered off to rattle awnings in a trailer court.

A dozen more paces along the shoulder, then…Sarah heard an enormous SSSHHHH, as if the Cosmic Librarian were calling for silence.

The sound of air brakes was followed by a double-creak as a huge bus came to a stop beside her.

Sarah turned to stare at the magnificent coach, all silver except for a long blue stripe beneath a row of spotless windows. Seeing the door open, she caught her breath.
Someone must be getting out here.

No one emerged.

The inside of the bus was filled with a soft, violet light. She could see the driver, a large, barrel-chested black man. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, black bow tie, black razor-creased trousers, shiny black shoes. He turned his head.

Sarah could
feel
the penetrating eyes behind the opaque sunglasses. And then she remembered the pale-faced boy in the convenience store. “Are you Otto's friend?”

This inquiry produced a wry grin. “Yes, I am.” The voice was deep, like (she imagined) a whale speaking from the bottom of the ocean. “You rather ride than walk?”

She felt herself nod.

“Then get on board, child.”

Without a thought of disobeying, she managed to get her foot onto the first high step. It was easier after that. She had barely gotten inside, when the driver pulled on the crank handle, slammed the door behind her. “Sit anywhere you want.”

All the seats were plump, plush red velvet. All were empty. After a glance at the long, narrow aisle, Sarah Frank chose a spot right immediately behind the driver. She could see his face in the mirror mounted above the broad windshield.

He released the brake, stepped on the accelerator. Like a great ship leaving harbor under full sail, the massive craft slipped away effortlessly, and without a sound. “Where're you and that spotted cat headed to?”

Her voice was a mousy squeak. “To Aunt Daisy's. She lives on the far end of the Southern Ute reservation, not far from Chimney Rock and right next to Spirit Can—”

“I know where she lives.” He sniffed. “In these parts, I know where
everybody
lives.”

He sounds like a braggart.
And braggarts were not to be trusted.
I hope he doesn't murder me and cut my body up into little pieces.
Another thought occurred to her. Sarah fumbled with her change purse.

The face in the mirror put on a disapproving frown. “You don't need no money to ride on
this
bus!”

She stared at the startling visage. “I don't?”

“Huh-uh.” The back of his black head shook, and the face in the mirror dutifully did the same. “This here's a special
charter
bus. And when-so-ever I'm not on a partic'lar job, the boss lets me pick up whom-so-ever I want to. And if I don't choose to charge 'em a solitary dime, that's up to me!” The big mouth smiled, presenting a dazzling display of pearly white teeth. “But it'll be 'leven dollars for the cat.”

“Oh, yes sir. I can pay—”

“That was a joke, young lady.” The frustrated comedian rolled his eyes.

“Oh.”
He's a big smart aleck.
She wanted to ask, “Where are
you
headed to?”, but did not dare.

The driver began to sing:

O Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land

As on thy highest mount I stand

The bus was picking up speed. Little white houses flashed by. Also sunflowers. Big signboards. Tall pine trees. The driver shifted gears. The engine hummed the hymn along with him.

I look away across the sea

Where mansions are prepared for me

It seemed very odd, but by and by, as miles and minutes slipped past the windows, Sarah began to feel comfortable. Even cozy. And for the first time since those bright days before her parents died—safe. She thought it over and corrected herself:
No, it wasn't quite that long ago. When I was a little girl and Charlie Moon gave me a piggy-back ride—I felt like I was where nobody can hurt me.
She considered praying again, offering thanks. But a troublesome thought nagged at her.
Maybe God doesn't know where I am.
She decided that it might not be prudent to attract the Almighty's attention.

For no apparent reason, the driver laughed out loud.

Sarah smiled, found the various sensations very curious and also appealing.

As moon pulled his Eddie Bauer/Triton V-8 expedition to a stop, the heavy automobile's seventeen-inch all-terrain tires crunched pleasantly on a bed of white gravel. The tribal investigator and the federal agent took their first look at the place Marilee Attatochee called home. The peaked roof perched atop the shotgun house was shingled with a varied collection of corrugated steel sheets; most were rusty-brown and loose as week-old scabs, a few were shiny as newly minted silver dollars and nailed down tight, the ones nearest the chimney were sooty black. In stark contrast to the decaying gray clapboards, the front door and window frames were freshly painted and looked new and blue as a robin's egg in June. In one of the windows, a round brown face appeared between a pair of white plastic curtains. Dark tufts of coal-black hair sprouted out this way and that, suggesting one of those indestructible cartoon characters who had recently experienced a hundred-kilovolt electrical shock. “That must be Miss Attatochee,” McTeague murmured.
She looks like a tough cookie.
The fed was eager to probe Sarah Frank's cousin with a few pointed questions, but deferred to the Ute. “Would you prefer that I wait outside? The lady may feel more comfortable talking to you if I'm not present.”

“Because you're a blue-eyed devil and I'm a sympathetic Indian?”

“Blue-eyed
what
?”

“It was what we Utes refer to as a ‘figure of speech.'”

“Do you Utes like my blue eyes?”

The dark man was able to blush without showing it. “They're more…violet.”

Lila Mae studied his craggy profile. “You're very sweet, Charlie.”

“I'm glad someone has finally noticed the sugary aspect of my character.”

She offered up a smile. “But you're also full of guile.”

His innocent expression was a question mark.

She explained: “You evaded my question.”

He watched the other woman, the one in the blue-framed window, who was watching him right back.
This Attatochee gal looks like she's mad enough to bite somebody's head off at the neck, chew it up, and spit it right in his face. I'd better take McTeague in for protection.
“Fact is, Lila Mae, you evaded
my
question.”

“What question was that?”

“D'you think the Papago woman would feel more comfortable with me because you're a blue-eyed devil and I'm a sympathetic Indian?”

“In my considered professional opinion, a stressed-out member of the Tohono O'otam tribe is more likely to share a confidence with another Native American than with someone of a more—shall we say—European persuasion.” The FBI agent pursed her lips. “Now it's your turn.”

He took a deep breath. “I like your eyes too much, McTeague.”
Not to mention everything else.
Which he did not. Mention it, that is.

“Thank you, Charlie. I like your eyes too.”

His face split in a grin. “You do, huh?”

“No. I was merely toying with you.” Resorting to unfair tactics, she batted long lashes over the violet orbs.

Despite the fact that his mind had suddenly melted into mush, Charlie Moon tried his best to come up with a witty response. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

The vampish woman was delighted to observe her devastating effect on the helpless male.
Treetop-tall Charlie's such a little boy at heart—such a
darling
little boy.
She did a quick sidestep. “Besides being a sympathetic Indian, you're also a friend of the family. I refer to Sarah Frank's father, not the Attatochee clan.”

Moon cleared his throat, found his tongue. “We're partners, McTeague—from here on in, it's just you and me.” He paused to let that sink in. It did. Her peculiar expression—as if she were about to say something that would shake the earth—rattled the man. He returned his gaze to the Attatochee window. The Papago woman's face had vanished. “And I imagine she'd like to talk to another woman.”

Twice in rapid succession, the Ute musician had plucked just the right chord.

“Very well.” McTeague consulted her compact, found the reflection satisfactory. “If it will make you more comfortable, I shall tag along. But only to show you how wrong you can be.”

“Having read somewhere or other that humbling experiences build strong character, I will appreciate the soul-searing humiliation.”

“This is your territory, and I expect you to conduct the interview without any help from me.” She slung the black purse over her shoulder. “At the appropriate moments, I shall smile and nod. But I will not have a solitary word to say.”

Moon swallowed a smirk.
That'll be the day.

This issue seemingly settled, they abandoned the comfort of the Ford Motor Company product, approached the dreary dwelling.

Marilee Attatochee was waiting, her hand clenched on the cold porcelain doorknob. As Moon's knuckles made the first rap, she jerked the door open, looked the slender, seven-foot Ute up and then down and then up again, all the way from the horsehide boots to his John B. Stetson hat.
He's just as good-looking as the last time I saw him.
When the object of her close inspection was about to open his mouth, she barked: “You don't have to introduce yourself—I know who you are.”

Moon returned a blank stare.

He don't remember when we met at Provo and Mary's wedding in Ignacio.
But Marilee remembered the Ute. And his cranky aunt Daisy. Not wishing to refer to that ancient history, she said: “Sarah talks about you all the time.” The tough little woman shot a suspicious glance at his long-legged, well-dressed companion who looked as if she'd just stepped off the cover of
Glamour
magazine. “Who's this?”

Charlie Moon removed his expensive black hat. Opened his mouth—

After having waited for an eternity that lasted barely one tick-tock of the clock, the woman at his side forgot her solemn Vow of Silence, and took up the slack in the conversation.

“I'm Special Agent McTeague, Miss Attatochee.” She presented her ID. “I'm with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and—”

“FBI!” Marilee flung her arms in the air. “I don't believe it—some mean old white man gets killed and my little cousin runs away from home and all of a sudden it's a
federal
case?”

“I'm not here on official business,” McTeague said.
Not yet.
“I'm a friend of Mr. Moon, who happens to be a Southern Ute tribal investigator, and as you know, Sarah Frank is—”

“Sure, I know—half Ute, on her daddy's side.” The Papago woman stepped back into the dusty, musty gloom of her ten-by-twelve living room. “You want to come inside?”

They did. And did.

The air scintillated with a curiously incongruous mix of Glade air freshener and ingrained-in-the-carpet cigarette smoke. In a corner, a television with the sound turned down displayed a snowy picture of a chubby middle-aged man concealed behind a painted clown's face. The program was
Uncle Jiggs' Children's Hour.
Uncle Jiggs was mouthing words to the kiddies: “…so stay tuned for good ol' Bugs Bunny and that nasty Daffy Duck.”

Marilee pointed to a worn-out couch that was swaybacked as a thirty-year-old plow horse, the bile-green tint of that fluid that passes for blood in grasshopper veins.

Without a qualm, her visitors seated themselves on it. There was a protesting groan, an ominous creaking, a slipping toward the middle which brought them closer together.

The woman of the house plopped down on the best piece of furniture in the room, which happened to be a cushioned maple rocking-chair. Staring at the astonishingly pretty, immaculately well-groomed white woman, Marilee unconsciously reached up to smooth her unkempt hair. When that task proved impossible, she thought it best to divert attention from her so-called hairdo, and did this by addressing a curt remark to Charlie Moon. “I know why you're here.”

Though the reason for their visit seemed obvious enough, the sworn officers of the law waited to hear from the self-proclaimed oracle.

As if attempting to see a path into the future, Marilee examined the back of her hand, where a network of blue veins looped over taut tendons. She stole a glance at the Ute. “You want me to tell you where you can find Sarah.”
You figure you can sneak her back to the res, stash her out in the boonies where nobody'll find her, not even this slick-as-snail-spit FBI agent.
“But I don't know where my cousin is.” She made the hand into a fist, erasing the tangled map. “Sooner or later, Sheriff Popper and his deputies will track her down. And when they find her, they'll turn her over to the juvenile authorities and they'll lock Sarah up 'til…” Her words trailed off like tiny sparrow tracks in a twilight snowfall.

As if he had read the Papago woman's thoughts, Charlie Moon wondered why he was here. To find Sarah—spirit her off to some safe hiding place? No. That was not an option. If, by some off chance he did encounter the missing teenager, he would be duty-bound to turn her over to the legally constituted authority. Which, in this jurisdiction, was either Sheriff Popper or the state police. After turning the question over in his mind, the tribal investigator concluded that he was in Tonapah Flats so Sarah would not be without a friend. A friend who would comfort her, listen to her side of the story. After which he would get Oscar Sweetwater on the telephone, tell the tribal chairman straight-out that the tribe had an obligation to hire a top-notch attorney to defend Provo Frank's daughter.
And if the penny-pinching old politician balks, I'll go to see Walter Price, who is the smartest lawyer west of the Pecos.
He remembered that Price was also one of the most expensive.
But I'll work something out. Even if it takes the rest of my life to pay it off. Even if I have to put up the Columbine for collateral.

The fact that neither of these people had said a word since entering her house was beginning to nag at the feisty Papago woman. A terrible thought occurred to her. “What is it—you come to tell me they've found Sarah? Is she—” Both fists clenched. “—all right?”

Again, McTeague responded before the Ute could get a word past his lips. “As of a few minutes ago, when we were conferring with Sheriff Popper, Miss Frank had not been found. And we have no reason to believe she is not perfectly fine.”
Of course, for all we know she could be perfectly dead.

“Oh, thank you.”
It's so nice to talk to another woman.
“It's such a relief—to know Sarah's not hurt.”
Or dead.
“Or anything.”

Realizing that she had gained a small advantage, the federal agent continued: “Charlie—Mr. Moon and I—are merely here to see if we can be of any help.” She paused to smile at the missing girl's older cousin, and used sleight of hand to plant the first seed. “Is there anything at all we can do for you?”

As Marilee Attatochee thought about it, her brow furrowed into the sort of dark ridges that gaunt, overalled Tennessee sharecroppers used to plow behind sweating mules. “Once they find her, they'll put her in the lockup for sure. Can you make sure she gets a really good lawyer?”

As the fed was about to assure her on this point, Moon finally found his tongue. “Consider it done.”

The Papago woman raised an eyebrow at the taciturn man. “So. You're an Indian who
can
talk. I was beginning to think maybe you was a mute Ute.”

“By tribal law—you can look it up—Section Sixteen, Paragraph Twelve, ‘Women and children can talk all they want, but adult males are limited to twelve dozen words a day.'” Moon grinned. “I save 'em up 'til I have something important to say.”

“Sarah thinks you're the finest man in the whole world.” Marilee looked him straight in the eye. “But she's just a dumb kid—what does she know?”

“Hmmm.”

The Papago woman actually smiled. “Did that count as a word?”

He shook his head, presumably to conserve precious syllables.

“I don't think them Ute laws apply here in Utah.” Marilee made this observation with a judicial air. “This is your chance to run off at the mouth.”

He mulled this over. “You might be right.”

The special agent decided on the direct approach. “Miss Attatochee, have you had any communication whatever from Miss Frank since Mr. Silver was assaulted?”

“You can call me Marilee.” She began to rock in the maple chair. “And no, I ain't heard a single word from Sarah.” Miss Attatochee pointed at the floor. “For all I know she could be holed up under the house with the pack-rats and polecats”—she aimed the finger at the ceiling—“or up in the loft with the vampire bats,” she rocked faster, “or she could be up yonder in Montana or even in Canada. But if you was to ask me—” She was interrupted by the sound of tires on gravel. The slam of a pickup door. The crunch of boots on the white stones. A thumpity-thump on the door.

Marilee frowned and asked herself: “Now who could that be?” Wanting an answer, she got up to see. Which required looking out the window.