Shaman's Bones by Doss James D

Author:Doss, James D. [Doss, James D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Native American
Publisher: Harper Collins
Published: 1996-01-10T05:08:16+00:00

WYOMING

The highway patrolman pulled on his thin leather gloves and reached behind the pickup seat. His fingers found the heavy instrument wrapped in a burlap bag. Harry MacFie paused, squinting his blue eyes to see in the dim starlight. It was nearly midnight and the moon wouldn’t rise over the eastern horizon for almost three hours. There should be enough time, but none to piss away. He didn’t actually think about what he had in mind, because the time for thinking was past. He’d already crossed that bridge.

He left his pickup parked in the dark shadow of a gas station. His boots crunched in the white gravel as he approached the rear of the rectangular structure. The heavy-duty bolt cutters he carried at his side were massive, stretching the muscles in his right arm. He rehearsed his plan, and the possible pitfalls. In the unlikely event that anyone saw him outside, well, that was no problem. He was a sworn officer of the law, and he was just driving by. He’d seen the bolt cutters lying in the parking lot and stopped to investigate. If he was discovered inside, well, that was kinda dicey, but he’d talk his way out of that too. He’d discovered a broken lock, and had gone inside to investigate.

To confront the burglar. Or burglars. This brought an uneasy smile to the Scotsman’s face. He was the damn burglar. They got wind of this over in Cheyenne headquarters, he was dead meat. And forget about retirement benefits. He sighed at the injustice of it all; enforcing the law sure wasn’t a job for sissies.

When he was within two paces of the rear door, MacFie stopped and turned his back to the building. His sharp blue eyes probed the near-darkness, and his ears absorbed the few sounds.

There was nothing to see but the starlit plains and less than a half dozen buildings. To the east, the streetlights of Bitter Springs twinkled halfheartedly. There was nothing to hear but the distant hum of a westbound diesel passing in the night. And a low wind moaning in the eaves of the deserted building. A cold wind.

The policeman went to work with the bolt cutters. In less than fifteen seconds, he’d nipped off the padlock. Before he left, he would put the damaged lock in his pocket and replace it with an identical unit. It was helpful, having an old buddy down in Denver who was a locksmith. The duplicate padlock had the same number, same core, as the one he’d just destroyed. When someone put a key in it, it’d work just fine. He was well pleased with himself. Once he was gone, there’d be no sign anyone had been in the place. He closed the door and leaned the bolt cutters against the imitation maple wall paneling. Fortunately, there were no windows in this storage room; he flicked the switch by the door and squinted as two rows of fluorescent lights flashed on with a buzzing crackle.

The lawman looked around.

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