Bone Walker: Book III of the Anasazi Mysteries by W. Michael Gear, Kathleen O’Neal Gear Page B

mound of stone visible on the ridgetop. The afternoon sun had drained the color from the buff canyon walls and bleached the aqua tones of the brush to a sickly green. A hollow had grown in Maggie’s stomach.
    Beside her, Rupert Brown bowed his head and took a deep breath. “The FBI’s on the way.”
    Maggie glanced at him. “I’m sorry, Rupert. You knew him a lot longer than I did.”
    “Forty-three years,” Rupert said sadly.
    They’d celebrated Rupert’s sixty-third birthday last month at the Visitors Center, but few people would guess his age. Except for his steely gray hair, he might have been in his late forties. He had a lean smooth face, with a long nose and sharp cheekbones. His intense brown eyes reminded Maggie of an eagle’s, probing and memorable. At six feet six, Rupert Brown cut an imposing figure. His green Park Service uniform, like always, was impeccably clean and pressed.
    “Dale got me into archaeology,” he said. “He gave me a chance and then kept me on track. He helped me get into the university. He was the chairman of my thesis committee. Back in the late sixties, he arranged a job for me with the government. Dale went to bat for me, said that it was about time that an Indian archaeologist was put in charge of Chaco Canyon. But more than that, without Dale, I doubt I’d be alive today.” He smiled wearily. “Every time I fell, he was always there to pick me up and kick me in the butt to get me going again.”
    Maggie’s heart ached. Dale had helped so many people. “He was proud of you, Rupert. You’ve done a good job. The staff likes you.”
    Voices sounded from the ridge to Maggie’s right where the law enforcement officers climbed over the site.
    “Rupert, I want to see Dale.”
    Rupert turned concerned eyes on her. “Magpie, trust me on this, all right? You don’t want to. I wish I hadn’t. It’s going to affect my sleep for a long time. It wasn’t pretty … what they did to him.”
    Maggie fought the sudden urge to cry. “Why? Who would do anything terrible to Dale? Who’d rob him? What would they take? He didn’t have anything!” She clenched her fists.
    Rupert’s expression pained at the tears welling in her eyes. “All right, if you really need to see him. Go. You’re going to find out eventually, but I want you to prepare yourself. It looks like Dale met a witch out here.” He paused. “Do you understand?”
    Maggie blinked her eyes clear. “You—you mean an ‘Indian’ witch? You can’t be serious.”
    He nodded. “This isn’t an Anglo crime, which means this is going to be a real circus for us. The press, the publicity. Not only do we have to bury an old friend, but the investigation is going to turn this park upside down. We’re in for an unholy mess once word gets out.” He squinted. “Thank God we’re past the tourist season. By tonight, when people start to hear, this place is going to be empty.” He rubbed his jaw. “Or full, who knows?”
    “I can’t believe it. What kind of witch? What tribe?”
    “I’m not sure. It’s complicated, Magpie. He’s buried upside down in the dirt. You saw how his feet were sticking up. They were bloody because the soles of his feet had been skinned off.”
    Maggie’s knees went weak. Rupert reached out and grabbed her arm to steady her. “Who would do that? Who would want to make sure he could not walk to the Land of the Dead?”
    “All I can think of is that somewhere in his long and colorful life, our old friend got crosswise with a witch. But, why bring him here? Why on my watch?” Rupert seemed to be speaking to the wind. “Is this a message for me? Something I’m supposed to understand?”
    “The only thing I understand,” Magpie said, “is that I just lost an old friend. It’s as if I can hear Dale calling to me, telling me to watch out.”
    She looked up at him, and Rupert said, “I want you to take the day off. Maybe the week. I don’t care. Go home, Magpie. Grieve. I’ll call you