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

winter-bare branches of cottonwoods, she could see stars sparkling. A faint sighing came from the breeze through the piñons and juniper.
    “If you’re sure.” Dusty sounded ominous as he led the way onto the porch, jingling his keys. She considered the warning note in his voice, remembering the various adventures she’d had with his vehicle: broken levers, mouse nests in the vent, nonfunctional air-conditioning, the missing seat belt he’d used for a tow strap. What on earth would his old battered trailer be like?
    The porch sagged under her weight, reminding her of the “you might be a redneck” jokes told by that American comedian. Dusty had bent over a hasp and fiddled with a key in a padlock. The chrome door handle appeared more than a little bent, as if someone had used a pry bar on it.
    When he stepped in and turned on the lights she followed him into a cramped living room. The front, under a louvered window, was dominated by a worn couch that supported two big pillows, several copies of American Antiquity , bound field reports, and a well-fingered copy of Steve LeBlanc’s Prehistoric Warfare in the American Southwest . Age had given the lacquered-wood walls a honeyed glow. It didn’t surprise her that a threadbare carpet covered the floor, cluttered here and there with books and a pile of clothing. A small black-and-white TV—a relic of the sixties—stood on a metal stand. Generous souls would call the kitchen “compact,” with an ancient gas stove, a small refrigerator, and a chipped yellow porcelain sink. The linoleum-topped counter supported a dish drainer, several empty Guinness bottles, and a battered blender. Knowing Stewart, its sole use was probably for margaritas. Bound field reports were piled atop the two kitchen chairs. A broken screen—the wooden kind used by archaeologists to sift dirt—was propped next to the door. Stewart’s idea of interior decorating, perhaps?
    The photographs pinned to the wall showed archaeologists smiling at the camera while they perched on back-dirt piles and crumbling Anasazi walls. A framed picture, one cut from a National Geographic magazine, showed Dale Emerson Robertson, his battered fedora tipped back on his head to expose his wiry gray hair. His gentle brown eyes looked wistful, as if focused on a great distance.
    Dale had left Pueblo Animas three days before, accompanying the site’s owner, Moshe Alevy, to the airport
at Farmington. From there, he should have driven back to his little house in the Albuquerque suburbs. He had probably had a delightful night dropping candy into bags.
    “I’m sorry about the mess,” Dusty said, hurrying to swipe a pile of papers from a plastic-upholstered chair. With the load cradled in his arms, he retreated down the narrow hallway behind the kitchen and ducked into a back room.
    She smiled as she finished her inspection. The place looked just like Dusty’s house ought to. Completely in fitting with his off-center personality.
    “I turned the heat on.” He emerged from the back, his blue eyes looking sheepish. “Want some coffee?”
    “Sure.” As he opened a wooden cabinet beside the sink and pulled a can of coffee from the shelf, she added, “It’s homey.”
    He laughed at the humor in her voice. “Yeah, well, the neighbors really hate it. Especially the guy next door. He’s got a one-point-four-million-dollar house perched to overlook my trailer. He’s offered me an incredible amount of cash for the property.”
    She propped herself on a filing cabinet that snuggled between the TV and the kitchen counter. “Waiting for a recovery in the real estate market before you sell, Stewart?”
    He measured coffee into an old blue enamel coffeepot. “It’s just that, well, it’s home, you know?” He gestured around with the red plastic measuring cup. “I mean, I like it here.” A grin crossed his lips. “And I get the biggest kick out of driving the guy next door crazy. He’s a lawyer, mind you, but he can’t