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

yellow eyes burned like flames as it soared into the dawn sky.
    She closed her eyes and fought to still her heart. Her aunts had all had the ability to see between the worlds. Right here, not so many years ago, she had heard singing in the night. Thinking it was tourists out after dark in violation of park regulations, she had come here, ticket book in hand to write a citation, and found an empty kiva bathed in white moonlight.
    Chaco was a powerful place, and now, again, it spoke to her. If only she could understand. She hurried back toward her truck. Whatever had happened to Dale, it wasn’t good.

CHAPTER 6
     
     
    THE OLD-TIMEY JINGLE of Dusty’s rotary phone blasted Maureen straight out of dreams. In them, Phil Morgan, her sycophantish colleague at McMaster University, had invited himself to dinner at her house in Niagara-on-the-Lake back in Ontario.
    The nightmare of it was that she couldn’t get him to leave. Phil just kept following her about the house, chattering incessantly about department trivia, the state of modern anthropology, and all the problems at the American Anthropological Association meetings. He was the Canadian liaison for the triple A.
    Confused, but thankfully awake, she scrambled out from under the blankets and blinked at Dusty’s living room—or at least the couple of inches of it left on either side of the foldout bed. It took her a moment to realize the jingling phone was buried underneath.
    In the process of climbing off the foot of the bed she whacked her knee on the metal frame, then upended the whole show to paw through Dusty’s dirty shirts for the phone.
    “Hello?” she croaked, trying to clear the sleep from her throat.
    “Maureen?” the curious voice asked on the other end.
    It took her a second to place the caller, the young Chaco ranger: Magpie Walking Hawk Taylor. “Maggie?”
    “Yes. Uh, have you heard from Dale?”
    Maureen frowned at the concern in Maggie’s voice as she said, “No, should I have?”
    A hesitation, and then: “Look, I’m out at Chaco. I just did the rounds, you know, dawn patrol? Someone rides around and checks the loop before the park opens. Well, Dale’s truck was in the Casa Rinconada parking lot. There’s frost on the windshield … like it’s been there all night.”
    “It’s where?”
    “Casa Rinconada. We have an interpretive trail that runs past a couple of small houses and the great kiva there. It’s on the south side of Chaco Wash. Almost due south of Pueblo Bonito. You remember that place?”
    Did she ever. Stewart had found her in Pueblo Bonito the morning after he’d shot off his mouth and told her point-blank that she was such a bitch it was no wonder she lived alone. Stewart had tracked her down the next morning, three miles from their Chaco Canyon dig. She had been sitting at the lip of a large kiva in the giant pueblo.
    Maureen shook her head. “What was Dale doing out there?”
    Maggie hesitated again. “We don’t know. In fact, we didn’t even know he was in the canyon. That’s why I called. I thought maybe Dusty might know. Did Dale say anything about coming out here?”
    Maureen frowned. “No. He wasn’t home last night. Sylvia called saying she couldn’t find him and she …” She glanced up.
    Dusty stood where the narrow hallway opened into the cramped kitchen. He’d pulled on faded jeans, but his muscular chest was bare.
    Maureen told him: “It’s Maggie. She found Dale’s truck in Chaco Canyon. Did Dale say he was going out there?”
    Dusty crossed the floor and took the receiver from her hand. “What’s wrong, Maggie?”
    Maureen glanced down, horrified to realize she only wore a T-shirt and her panties. With unnatural haste, she shot a hand out and snagged up her pants. As she yanked them on, the pant leg was twisted and wouldn’t pass her foot. Overbalanced, she toppled sideways into the wall.
    “He’s where?” Dusty asked, amusement in his eyes as he turned to watch Maureen claw for balance. In