Read Online Moonbird Boy by Abigail Padgett - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Abigail Padgett
Tags: Mystery, Native American, southern california, st louis, Social Work, adhd, shark, Child Protective Services
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around in the sun without a hat. Come on in."
"Can't," Bo answered. "I've come to talk about Mort, and I know we have to do that outside. What's going on, Zach? Something's wrong; I can feel it. Who was that man?"
"Just business," he answered, hunching massive shoulders as if battling a chill. His eyelids were swollen and with the graying stubble on his cheeks his long, braided hair looked less Indian than derelict. Zach, Bo noted with alarm, was at this moment scarcely the pillar of strength she knew and respected. "What do you want to know about Mort?" he asked. "I haven't heard anything from the sheriff's people since they were here yesterday."
"You mean you haven't called? And what about Bird? Doesn't anybody care what's happened to Bird?"
"Bo, we've got eleven sick people here to manage. Until yesterday you were one of them, so you understand what I'm saying. Why'd you drive all the way up here? What do you want?"
The words drove a wedge between them that Bo felt in her stomach. She wasn't a guest anymore, wasn't going to be treated with the easy patience demanded by illness. She'd left; now she was an outsider. Hard to take. And Zach's count was off. There had been fourteen guests at Ghost Flower until yesterday. Mort's death and her return to San Diego would not leave eleven.
"You mean twelve sick people," she corrected. "And what I want to know is..."
Zach stared into his hands, stretched palm-side up at his waist. Then he folded each into a brown fist. "Old Ayma walked off," he said quietly, not looking up. "Nobody noticed in the mess about Mort. We searched all night. Nobody found her."
Bo felt her heart beat faster as she looked past Zachary Crooked Owl into the bleached landscape bequeathed a gentle, mystical people by the United States government. To the west lay the Campo Reservation, and north of that, the La Posta, Manzanita, and Cuyapaipe Reservations. All Kumeyaay. All desert lands now called home by the last remnants of a once-large tribe so private and unassuming it had nearly perished without a trace. Also out there, Bo remembered, were lost emerald and gold mines, a mysterious Viking ship jutting from the side of a desert wash until buried by an earthquake in 1933, and a ghostly mule-drawn stagecoach complete with its driver murdered in 1860, still seen barreling through desert canyons. A shape-shifting, dangerous place. Deadly for an old woman already hallucinating. An old woman who spit out the pills that might have enabled her to survive.
"You've informed the Sheriff’s Department," Bo thought aloud. "What about the search-and-rescue teams, the trained dogs?"
"They've been out there since first light. They haven't found her." Zach's barrel chest expanded with a shuddering breath and then shrank as he exhaled. "They're bringing in cadaver dogs this afternoon."
"Cadaver dogs?"
"Specially trained. They can find a fresh body within eight to ten miles, less for one that's been dead longer. Ayma couldn't have gone far. They'll find her."
"My God," Bo breathed. "I'm sorry, Zach. This must be hell for you and Dura, everybody."
"Been doing this all my life, Old John before me, all the way back to my uncle, Catomka. Never lost anybody. Then two at once." His wide nostrils flared with some emotion Bo couldn't define. Anger. Or maybe despair. "It feels like a curse."
On the ground beside the lodge driveway a darkling beetle emerged from beneath a rock and moved, its rump characteristically elevated, into a clump of Mormon tea. Bo watched the bug's stiff movement and wondered what had inspired it to change locations. There was no way to know.
The universe, she thought, was comprised of such inexplicable movements. Black beetles, psychotic old women, cosmic debris hurtling through space—all intent on journeys for which explanation was simply absent. No one would ever know why Old Ayma walked into the autumn desert. Or why Mort Wagman was shot in the middle of the night on a California Indian
"Can't," Bo answered. "I've come to talk about Mort, and I know we have to do that outside. What's going on, Zach? Something's wrong; I can feel it. Who was that man?"
"Just business," he answered, hunching massive shoulders as if battling a chill. His eyelids were swollen and with the graying stubble on his cheeks his long, braided hair looked less Indian than derelict. Zach, Bo noted with alarm, was at this moment scarcely the pillar of strength she knew and respected. "What do you want to know about Mort?" he asked. "I haven't heard anything from the sheriff's people since they were here yesterday."
"You mean you haven't called? And what about Bird? Doesn't anybody care what's happened to Bird?"
"Bo, we've got eleven sick people here to manage. Until yesterday you were one of them, so you understand what I'm saying. Why'd you drive all the way up here? What do you want?"
The words drove a wedge between them that Bo felt in her stomach. She wasn't a guest anymore, wasn't going to be treated with the easy patience demanded by illness. She'd left; now she was an outsider. Hard to take. And Zach's count was off. There had been fourteen guests at Ghost Flower until yesterday. Mort's death and her return to San Diego would not leave eleven.
"You mean twelve sick people," she corrected. "And what I want to know is..."
Zach stared into his hands, stretched palm-side up at his waist. Then he folded each into a brown fist. "Old Ayma walked off," he said quietly, not looking up. "Nobody noticed in the mess about Mort. We searched all night. Nobody found her."
Bo felt her heart beat faster as she looked past Zachary Crooked Owl into the bleached landscape bequeathed a gentle, mystical people by the United States government. To the west lay the Campo Reservation, and north of that, the La Posta, Manzanita, and Cuyapaipe Reservations. All Kumeyaay. All desert lands now called home by the last remnants of a once-large tribe so private and unassuming it had nearly perished without a trace. Also out there, Bo remembered, were lost emerald and gold mines, a mysterious Viking ship jutting from the side of a desert wash until buried by an earthquake in 1933, and a ghostly mule-drawn stagecoach complete with its driver murdered in 1860, still seen barreling through desert canyons. A shape-shifting, dangerous place. Deadly for an old woman already hallucinating. An old woman who spit out the pills that might have enabled her to survive.
"You've informed the Sheriff’s Department," Bo thought aloud. "What about the search-and-rescue teams, the trained dogs?"
"They've been out there since first light. They haven't found her." Zach's barrel chest expanded with a shuddering breath and then shrank as he exhaled. "They're bringing in cadaver dogs this afternoon."
"Cadaver dogs?"
"Specially trained. They can find a fresh body within eight to ten miles, less for one that's been dead longer. Ayma couldn't have gone far. They'll find her."
"My God," Bo breathed. "I'm sorry, Zach. This must be hell for you and Dura, everybody."
"Been doing this all my life, Old John before me, all the way back to my uncle, Catomka. Never lost anybody. Then two at once." His wide nostrils flared with some emotion Bo couldn't define. Anger. Or maybe despair. "It feels like a curse."
On the ground beside the lodge driveway a darkling beetle emerged from beneath a rock and moved, its rump characteristically elevated, into a clump of Mormon tea. Bo watched the bug's stiff movement and wondered what had inspired it to change locations. There was no way to know.
The universe, she thought, was comprised of such inexplicable movements. Black beetles, psychotic old women, cosmic debris hurtling through space—all intent on journeys for which explanation was simply absent. No one would ever know why Old Ayma walked into the autumn desert. Or why Mort Wagman was shot in the middle of the night on a California Indian
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