Nightwing by Martin Cruz Smith Read Free Book Online

like yellowed china, “thinks this is hell on earth right here. Maybe you’ll come to think so, too.”
    “Deputy, if this man we found this morning was a so-called witch,” Franklin said, “is there any possibility that he was killed?”
    “Not Abner,” Selwyn answered for Youngman. “He was too big a witch. Sure, they’d chase him off the mesa. But they’d no sooner touch him than cut off their own hands. He’d come right out of the grave for them. Come like a wolf, or a—”
    “The man you found,” Youngman interrupted, “was an old hermit. That’s all. Nobody killed him, and if I hear any rumors that someone did I’ll know where those rumors started. Right, Selwyn?” He gripped the store owner above the elbow. “Excuse us, please.”
    Youngman pulled Selwyn into the front room.
    “You get yourself something to drink, old man.”
    “I talk too much when I’m sober.”
    “You’re not sober, you’re just not drunk enough. You know better than to start babbling about witches. ‘Come out of his grave . . .’ Jesus.” He found a pint under the counter, unscrewed the top and poured whiskey into Selwyn’s mouth. A gust of wind made the screen doors slap open. Liquor rolled down the side of Selwyn’s chin as he started.
    “Just the wind,” Youngman said.
    “He could.”
    “Then you say yourself a prayer tonight.”
    “He could do a lot of things.”
    “Not any more.”
    Lightning jigsawed over Gilboa. As a bolt hit the outdoor freezer, the inside of the store turned silver, then black from the backflow of electricity. The generator started again. The lights inside the store cast a waxy glow. Youngman hurried to pick up the goods he’d come for.
    “Put it on my bill.”
    “What else?” Selwyn was feeling better. “Maybe I can still get one of those sob sisters in there to buy a pot.”
    Like sails, the clouds split. In half an hour, they’d drop three inches of water, a quarter of the year’s total rainfall, enough to turn arroyos into rapids and break open the armored seeds of smoke trees, ironwood and blue paloverde. Gilboa’s road turned into rutted mud and waves spewed from the jeep’s tires as Youngman drove the hundred yards to his hogan.
    A Land Rover was parked in front of the office. He had to run through the mud before putting his shoulder to the door.
    Abner was still lying in the corner but the sheet was pulled back and kneeling over the exposed body was another white man.
    “You missionaries don’t give up easy.” Youngman shut the door.
    The white looked up. He was Youngman’s age, deeply tanned, with close-cut red hair, wide blue eyes, wide smile, dressed in rough khakis and big, so big that the body at his feet looked like a doll. His hands were covered by rubber gloves and, instead of a Bible, they held a scalpel and a glassine envelope.
    “Won’t be a minute.” The voice was modestly official.
    “You won’t be a second. Stand up.”
    Reluctantly, the visitor did as he was told, stooping to prevent his head from touching the ceiling. He rolled the glove off his right hand and held it out to Youngman.
    “I apologize for what this must look like. My name’s Hayden Paine.” He held his hand out for ten seconds before dropping it. “Well. Just give me a chance to clean up and I’ll explain everything.”
    “If I were you, I’d start talking now.”
    Paine smiled, totally at ease despite his bloody gloves, the closeness of the hogan, and the drumming of the rain.
    “I’m stopping at all the law enforcement and health offices on the reservation. This will satisfy you, I believe.” He handed Youngman a folded paper. While Youngman read it, Paine crouched by an aluminum case. He removed his second glove and dropped both into a plastic bag, washed his hands with alcohol and cotton, and taped the glassine packet.
    “To Whom It May Concern,” Youngman read the letter, “Mr. Hayden Paine is conducting a medical survey that may be of great benefit to our nation.