The sound of the shower had stopped ten minutes ago, but he’d yet to see Maureen.
He glanced at his foldout couch, his bed from last night already stowed, then turned to study the hallway that led to his bedroom. Would he ever be able to sleep there again without thinking of Maureen’s body?
He sighed and poured two hot cups of coffee. He set
them on the kitchen table, then glanced at his watch. Eight-thirty. They’d slept late, and it was a long drive to Chaco, especially pulling a trailer on those roads.
Dusty cupped a hand to his mouth and called, “Maureen? Breakfast is on the table.”
“Be there in just a second!”
As Dusty reached for a bottle of hot sauce, he heard a car pull in. Through the louvered kitchen window, he watched Sam Nichols step out of a government Dodge.
“We’ve got company,” he called down the hallway. “Agent Nichols is here.”
By the time he opened the door, Nichols was climbing onto his rickety porch. “You’re out early,” he greeted. “Come on in. Had breakfast?”
Nichols gave him a thin smile and looked curiously around his trailer. The place seemed to shock him.
“Well, it’s homey,” Dusty defended. “And it was Dad’s. And yeah, I know, it’s not much.”
“Upper Canyon Road,” Nichols added. “Driving up here I had, well, a different idea.”
Dusty smiled and stepped out of the way to let Nichols into the trailer. “Right. Most people do. So, if you ever get called in to investigate my murder, start with the lawyer next door. He’s getting desperate enough to hire a hit man to get me out of here.”
Nichols cocked his head, his mind chewing over something that had apparently occurred to him.
“Uh, you didn’t say anything about breakfast. I can throw another egg—”
“No, no.” Nichols shook his head. “Smells great though. I’d take a cup of coffee.”
“You got it.” Dusty walked back to the kitchen and poured another cup. As he delivered it, he said, “Have a seat,” and pointed to the couch.
Nichols remained standing, but he sipped the coffee. “Have you heard from Rhone?”
“Sylvia? Not today. Why? Should I have?”
Nichols’s one good eye missed nothing. “Not necessarily.”
Maureen stepped out of the bathroom and made her way down the hall. Her braided hair was still damp and she looked wonderful. Dusty stopped short to enjoy her, skin damp and flushed. She wore blue jeans and a black turtleneck.
“Good morning, Agent Nichols.” Maureen shook his hand and turned to the breakfast plates. “My God, that smells wonderful. I’m starving.”
“Dig in,” Dusty told her. “Don’t let it get cold.”
Nichols propped an elbow on the file cabinet and sipped. “Good coffee. Go ahead and eat.”
“You’re sure you don’t want some?” Dusty indicated his plate as he sat. “It would just take a minute.”
“I ate,” Nichols said. “Thanks for the leads on both Dr. Sullivan and Dr. Hawsworth. Sullivan pretty well expected me to drop in on her. She’s moved from La Fonda to the Loretto, says it’s much nicer. Hawsworth is still at the Hilton. I assume that after our little talk, he’s not going anywhere except back to his house in Taos.”
“Any arrests?” Maureen asked, trying to be casual as she fished for information.
Nichols scowled down into his coffee. “Look, before we can make an arrest, we have to have a case. So far, we can’t build a case on what we have.”
Dusty balanced
huevos
on his fork. “Ruth Ann and Carter both say it has something to do with the past.” Dusty had noticed that people who knew her forty years ago called her Ruth, but he would always think of her as Ruth Ann. Somehow it sounded more menacing.
“Dr. Sullivan said that Carter had his own witch.” Maureen took a drink of coffee. “Maybe he’d tell you who—”
“Way ahead of you, Dr. Cole. The guy’s name was Cochiti. He died over a year ago. Kind of mysterious
circumstances. Coroner’s report said he fell down a canyon slope. They attributed all the bruises and the cranial trauma to the fall.”
Dusty lifted his gaze to pin Nichols. “It was out on the reservation, right?”
“Yeah. Place called Tsegi Canyon.”
Maureen turned suddenly. “Isn’t that traditional?”
“Yes.”
“What’s traditional?” Nichols asked.
Dusty used a piece of tortilla to scoop up eggs and chili. “The way they take care of witches. In the old days they stoned them to death and buried them. Western law has problems with such doings, so today, suspected witches ‘fall’ off the rimrock.”
“I see.” Nichols stared into his coffee. “Hawsworth was in Taos, with witnesses, when it happened. We couldn’t find a link.”
“What about his calls to Dale?” Maureen asked. “Could he explain them?”
“Hawsworth says he was getting faxes. Threatening messages from someone called Kwewur. He says he thought Dr. Robertson was sending them, and he called him to get him to stop.” Nichols sipped the coffee. “We checked the phone records. Nothing conclusive.”
“He told me,” Maureen said, “that they were sent to his home from a hotel, the El Dorado in Santa Fe.”
Nichols blinked. “What else did he tell you?” He set his coffee aside as he pulled out his notebook.
Dusty finished his breakfast and went to wash the plate as Maureen outlined her conversations with Hawsworth and Ruth Ann.
When she was done, Nichols watched Dusty dry his plate and put it in the cupboard. “So, tell me, Stewart, what do you really think they’re going to find when they dig up that site out there at Chaco?”
Dusty reached out to Maureen. “Maureen, if you’re finished, hand me your plate.”
She stood and handed him the plate. As Dusty
washed it, he said, “I think we’re going to find the reason Dale was killed. But before you get your hopes up, I want you to prepare yourself.”
“What for?”
“I don’t think the evidence is going to make any sense to you, Agent Nichols, and I doubt it will be something you can take to a prosecuting attorney.”
“Such as?” Nichols asked.
“I think we’re going to find a witch.” Dusty dried Maureen’s plate and stacked it atop his in the cupboard. He’d been finding witches in every archaeological site he’d dug in the past two years. They seemed to be his lot in life. “Alive or dead, he’s there.”
“We’re back to witches again.” Nichols sighed. “Put there by Dr. Robertson’s killer, I suppose?”
Dusty shook his head. “No, it’ll be prehistoric. But he’s there.”
“How do you know?” Maureen asked.
Dusty gave her a solemn look. “There was an old pot hunter’s hole. Do you remember?”
Maureen frowned. “Yes.”
“I think the person who killed Dale dug that hole. I think he found something in there that tied him and Dale together, and I think I can—”
“Sylvia Rhone,” Nichols said out of the blue. “How long has it been since you’ve talked to her?”
Dusty shook his head, puzzled by the abrupt shift in conversation. “Yesterday, why?”
Nichols pushed his glasses up on his nose. “How well do you know her?”
“Very well. She’s a good friend.”
“How long since you’ve seen her?”
“I saw her at Dale’s wake in the office.” Dusty leaned across the counter. “What is this about, Nichols?”
“We can’t confirm her whereabouts on the weekend of Dr. Robertson’s death.”
“Well, I can.” Dusty straightened up. “She was in Colorado doing a pipeline survey.”
Nichols nodded. “That’s what she told us. But no one saw her out there.”
“Of course not, it was Saturday, and she was in the middle of nowhere.”
Nichols seemed to be thinking about that. “She had a gasoline and dinner receipt from Cuba, New Mexico. Does that make sense to you?”
“Sure. It’s on the way to the project area.”
Nichols lifted a finger and pointed it at Dusty’s heart. “It’s also the closest town to where Dr. Robertson was killed out at Chaco.”
Dusty folded his arms like a shield over his chest. “Coincidence, Nichols. I have a work order in the office from the pipeline company. She was supposed to be up there.”
Nichols took a sip of his coffee and his eyes drifted around the trailer as though cataloging every spiderweb that draped the windows. “To your knowledge, did Robertson ever have an affair with Rhone? You know, a field camp fling?”
Dusty’s eyes turned to stone. “Dale never had an affair with a student, period. Why?”
“Just wondering. Michall Jefferson hired Rhone to help with the dig, so I did some research. She has an extensive file with the Social Services department office in Idaho.”
“Yeah, so what?” Over the years, Sylvia had told him a lot about her childhood. She’d spent the first eight years of her life being shunted from one foster home to another, and not all of her “parents” had been guardians.
Nichols took a few seconds to absorb Dusty’s hostile tone, then said, “You think she needs your protection?”
An odd squirming sensation invaded Dusty’s chest. “Well, if anyone needs my protection, it’s Sylvia. If you’re thinking she’s a suspect, forget it.”
Nichols ran his thumb over the handle of his cup. “You and Rhone seem very close, why?”
“I don’t know,” he responded defensively, “maybe because we both had screwed-up childhoods. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself.”
“Uh-huh. And do you know her better than she knows herself?”
Dusty stared angrily at Nichols. “You’d have to ask her.”
“Did you know, for example, that Rhone tried to murder one of her foster fathers in his sleep? She used a pair of scissors. Rhone claimed she didn’t even remember the event. The Social Services people jerked her out of the home immediately, of course, but it took a long time before they could find her another home.”
“How old was she?” Dusty asked.
“Four.”
Dusty nodded, remembering Sylvia telling him a story about one of her “fathers” in Idaho. The man had sneaked into her room every night for months when Sylvia had been four years old. All Sylvia remembered was the feel of his mouth over hers, and his stinking smell, like gin mixed with saltwater, but the description had been enough to turn Dusty’s stomach.
Dusty said, “Maybe he deserved it.”
Nichols smiled, as though he’d just confirmed one of his pet theories, and it irked Dusty. Especially since he didn’t know what the theory was.
Nichols said, “Let’s change the subject for a moment. Weren’t you ever curious about your father’s family?”
Dusty felt oddly as though he was being methodically bludgeoned. Either Nichols was very good at his job, or he was a sadist.
“Sure I was. Dale didn’t want to talk about them, but I used to ask. He told me he had called Dad’s folks, and they didn’t want me. He’d asked if they’d fight his
taking custody of me, and they said no. Dale ended up as my legal guardian. End of story.”
“But you never called them? Never wrote letters?” Nichols asked.
“What for? Sure, I thought about them sometimes, but my family was Dale. They didn’t want me. I didn’t want them. What could I possibly have in common with a bunch of Philadelphia rich people?”
“Probably nothing,” Nichols said, “but if Dr. Sullivan ever brings them up, tell me about it.”
“Right.” Dusty frowned. “Why should she? As I understand it, she never even met them.”
Nichols glanced at the rolled sleeping bags and bags of food stacked by the door. “I take it you’re headed for Chaco Canyon?”
“As soon as we lock up here.” Maureen stood.
“I wanted to remind you, Dusty”—Nichols fixed him with his good eye—“that your position is a little delicate out there. You are not to compromise that dig in any way. Do you understand me? If you so much as touch anything, my team will consider it to be obstruction of an investigation. I’ll file those charges and slap you in front of a judge’s bench before you can whistle.”
“I understand.”
“See that you don’t
forget
in the heat of a discovery.”
Dusty turned on the hot water and let it run on his hands while he thought about Sylvia, and the demons that haunted her sleep. As steam curled up around his face, Dusty said, “Tell me something, will you, Nichols? If I can compromise the investigation so easily, why are you allowing me to go out there at all?”
Nichols walked over and stood across the counter from Dusty. The wind outside had blown wisps of his thick black hair over his horn-rimmed glasses. “That’s simple, Stewart. Killers really do love to return to the scene of the crime—it gives them some perverted
kick—and Hawsworth told me that he believes everyone from that time is in danger.”
“Yeah, so?” Dusty asked.