Shadow Man (29 page)

The priest thought he saw the glint of mischief in her eye. “As you well know, I am retired.”

“Me too.” The tribal elder rocked in the chair. Began to hum “Rock of Ages.”

He cleared his throat. “There has been a visiting priest at St. Ignacio’s.”

“Oh, sure, I heard about Father What’s-his-name.” She dismissed What’s-his-name with a flick of her wrist. “He’s from back East, I don’t remember exactly where. Boston or Providence or Long Island—one of them uppity places.” Daisy frowned. “What do them Johnny Rebs call ’em?” She closed her eyes. “Oh, now I remember—damn Yankees.”

Father Raes paled. “Daisy—shame on you!”

“Oh
I
wouldn’t say that—to me he’s a
danged
Yankee.” While the priest fumed, Daisy hummed another bar or two of the hymn. “They tell me all his sermons are about fund-raising and a new rectory and theology and useless stuff like that.” It occurred to her that Father Raes’s single vanity was pride in his several university degrees. She stopped the rocker, leaned closer to her victim. “And you know what else? They say he’s got himself a Ph.D. I bet that’s why he thinks he’s such a big hotshot.”

The scholar felt his temperature rising. “I happen to hold a doctorate myself.”

“Oh,” she said. Shook her head. “I might’ve known.”

The kindhearted cleric choked back a surge of righteous anger. “Daisy, I regret the necessity to say this—but I must.” He fixed her with a steely glare. “I am greatly disappointed in you.”

“Now you’ve hurt my feelings.” She started rocking again, humming “Bringing in the Sheaves.” “But I won’t hold it against you. Tell you what—if you ever say the Mass at St. Ignatius again, I’ll drop by. Just to see if you still remember how.”

Father Raes set his jaw. “Daisy, there is no excuse for your absence from church during the past year.”

Daisy jutted out her chin.
I’ve been there fifty more times than you have.
But she couldn’t admit to that.

He clasped his hands. “But there is another matter that causes me even more concern for the state of your soul.”

She snorted. “My soul is as good as it ever was.”

“Sad to say, that is probably so. But those insults you hurled at Mr. DeSoto—such behavior amounts to a grievous sin.”

Daisy slowed her rocking. “Is ‘grievous’ as bad as ‘mortal’?”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s the subject?”

Unmoved by this devious subterfuge, Father Raes cocked his gun, unloaded both barrels. “Repentance. And penance.”

Either of these harsh projectiles would have pierced the old sinner’s skin. The combination quite did her in.

Daisy Perika had left her interview with Father Raes convinced that she had done nothing wrong in recognizing DeSoto for what he certainly was. A blivit is a blivit! And telling Pineapple Head exactly what she thought about him was certainly the right thing to do. Honesty Is the Best Policy, and Tell It Like It Is—those were in the Bible, weren’t they? But even with Truth and Justice and a mistaken understanding of Holy Scripture solidly in her corner, Daisy realized that the Catholic priest had taken a quite different view of the matter, and she had no doubt that God would side with Father Raes—who probably had talked to Him as soon as she’d left the log cabin. The tribal elder tried not to think about it, and was reasonably successful during the daytime. But after night would cover the Columbine, and she was in her bed, it did not matter what she tried to think about. The priest’s words would come back to haunt her.

Shame on you…I am greatly disappointed in you…concern for the state of your soul…those insults you hurled at this Mr. DeSoto…a grievous sin…Repentance…Penance.

Even after she had drifted away into something resembling sleep, the backslider’s troubled conscience would not let her rest. The dream varied, but went more or less like this: Father Raes would appear at the foot of her bed, weeping and sighing as if his heart would break. Whenever he had a minute to spare from his various criminal activities, DeSoto would join the priest, a halo glowing around his ugly face! Pineapple Head would bare his chest, as if prepared to absorb the arrows of her insults with the patience of a holy martyr. Lastly, Father What’s-his-name would join the trio, and say a prayer for the troublesome old woman. The pockmarked hypocrite, pretending to be a saint—flanked by two sad-faced priests. It was just about more than a person could bear.

After three nights of this terrible torment, Daisy made up her mind.

At breakfast, she glared across the table at Charlie Moon. “This is the first meal we’ve had together in a week.”

Her nephew deftly inserted a tablespoon of blackberry jam into a hot biscuit.

“Did you hear what I said?”

He nodded at the biscuit. “Seven days a week, sunup to sundown—a rancher’s life is nothing but work, work, work.”

“I’ve been talking to some of your hired hands.” She stirred her coffee, smirked at the hardworking man. “They say a horse pitched you onto a fence.”

He shrugged. “Don’t ever believe anything these cowboys tell you.”

“My father broke wild horses for sixty years and
he
was never bucked off.”

“Well, ol’ Granddad was quite a man.” A man who claimed to have found a ninety-pound gold nugget on Shell-hammer Ridge and ate a bushel of raw turnips at one sitting and fought off an enraged grizzly with his Russell Barlow pocketknife. Not necessarily on the same day, of course.

She pushed the cup aside. “Charlie, I am sick and tired of sitting here by myself. Never going nowhere.”

“I’ll tell Butch to take you into Granite Creek.”

Daisy shook her head. “I don’t want none of your smelly cowboys taking me nowhere. But before winter comes, you can drive me down to Ignacio. We can have some lunch at Angel’s.” She hesitated. “And then I want to go have a look at my place.”

A shadow passed over the Ute’s face. “There’s nothing left of your trailer. After the fire inspector got finished with his work, I had all the debris hauled off.”

“I don’t care, I’ll still want to see the land.” Daisy gazed at the tranquil picture in her mind. “I’ll go for a long walk in Spirit Canyon.”
And talk to some of my old friends.
There were dozens of ghosts in
Cañón del Espíritu.
And there was the
pitukupf,
of course. She did not particularly like the little man, but when you had been away from home for a long time, any neighbor was a welcome sight. There were good spirits there too, even some that came to call from Upper World—like Nahum Yaciiti. The old shepherd, who was one of God’s Holy People, had come to comfort her on the night of the fire.
Maybe, if I was back where I belong, Nahum would come to see me. If he did, we could talk about this and that.
It did not occur to the shaman that his spirit would ever visit the Columbine. Nahum, she assumed, would be as uncomfortable in the high country as she was. Even in the middle of the summer, the nights here were ice-cold.

“Okay.” There was a twinkle in Moon’s eye. “Before the first big snow, I’ll take you back to the old home place.”

Daisy gave no evidence of having heard him. “I’ve been thinking.”

Uh-oh.
Charlie Moon tried not to look alarmed.

“I don’t have hardly any stuff left, so I don’t need that much room. Just a two-burner stove and a small table, and a toilet, and a little cot to sleep on. I have enough money saved up to buy me one of them little camping trailers—if it was used. You could tow it out to my place, and hook it up to the electric and water.”

He turned this over in his mind. “Well, that’s something worth thinking about.”

“Don’t think about it, do it!”

He got up from the table.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

He grinned. “Well, I
think
I’m going over to the Big Hat, then—”

“You better think again!”

“What?”

She pointed at his empty chair. “Sit down.”

He sat.

She leaned over the table, fixing him with a stare. “Today, you are taking me over to Garcia’s Crossing.”

What’s at Garcia’s Crossing?
He did not bat an eye. “Okay, let’s go.”

Daisy regarded him with considerable suspicion. “What—no argument from Mr. I’m-So-Busy-I-Don’t-Have-Time-to-Spit?”

He bathed her in a warm smile. “I wouldn’t want you to call up one of your friends.”

Her voice lost its edge. “What do you mean by that?”

There was a merry twinkle in his eye. “I mean it’s better to have
me
for your driver than, oh, let’s say—someone who tools around in a rickety old Oldsmobile, terrorizing law-abiding motorists.”

“Louise-Marie is a perfectly good driver.”

“I’m sure she is. Now are we gonna sit here all morning and talk about it, or do you want to hop in the car and start rolling on down the road?”

“I’m too old to hop. And you haven’t asked me
why
I want to go.”

I’ll give her a little more rope.
“You really think I don’t know?”

I should’ve known.
“Scott Parris told you all about it, didn’t he?”

Aha!
“If he did, it would be in the strictest confidence. I’d be honor-bound not to admit it.”

Daisy scratched at a spot on the tablecloth. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that white policeman. You and him are thick as thieves.”

“It’s true,” Moon said. “There’s hardly anything he don’t tell me.”

“Scott’s a bigmouth. And so are you.” She got up with a groan. “I’ll fix us some sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. You be ready to leave in twenty minutes.” As an afterthought, she added: “And bring that ugly dog of yours along.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You enjoy Sidewinder’s company?”

She brushed this off with a gesture. “At least when I talk to a dog, I can be fairly sure he won’t repeat what I say to every nitwit in the county.”

Charlie Moon dialed the familiar number, waited to hear the familiar voice. After four rings, it boomed in his ear.

“Police department, Chief Parris here.”

“Hello, Chief. This is your faithful Indian friend.”

“Charlie, how are you?”

“Troubled. I have been waiting for some time…” he looked at his watch, figured it amounted to about four minutes, “for you to give me a call. And tell me what I needed to know.”

“Is this some kind of riddle?”

“Are you some kind of friend who keeps secrets from his best buddy?”

“Secrets?” A nervous cough. “What about?”

“About what my aunt Daisy did. That business at Garcia’s Crossing.”

“Oh…that.”

The Ute filled the space with silence.

“Charlie—you there?”

Moon grunted. He could see the white man blushing, pulling at his shirt collar.

“So you found out about it.”

“It was bound to happen, pardner.” Moon did his best imitation of a man who’d been let down by his best friend. “Just wish I’d heard it from you.”

There was an uneasy silence before Parris mumbled into the mouthpiece. “Look, there was no real harm done. I just thought it’d be best if we let it rest.”

“Just the same…” Moon let his words trail off.

“What’d you hear?”

Enough to want to hear more.
“Enough to make me worry.”

“Well, it wasn’t no big deal. You must’ve heard an exaggerated account.”

“Maybe so. You want to tell me your version of what happened?”

Parris didn’t. But he did.

The drive was spent in silence. After the requisite number of miles had accumulated on the odometer, they approached the outskirts of Granite Creek, passed the Mountain Man Bar and Grille, the Ford dealership, the new Wal-Mart superstore, the BelMar Trailer Court, the rodeo grounds.

None of this was of the least interest to Sidewinder, who was stretched out on the backseat, enjoying a blissful sleep. In his dream, the aged hound was a puppy again. He was yipping and running and rollicking through the grass, chasing a black mouse.

As Charlie Moon watched the blacktop slip under the Expedition, he wondered what his aunt was thinking about.

Daisy Perika’s imagination was operating in overdrive. Recalling her previous passage along this route, she was haunted by the possibility that she might encounter that nasty white cop again. Despite this worry, she could not help but smile at the remembrance of his comical image in the Oldsmobile’s rearview mirror—hopping around on one leg like a crippled ape. She assured herself that a second confrontation was unlikely. First of all, how would that mean policeman know she was coming through his town again? And even if he did know—he would not want to have a face-to-face with her nephew.
Nobody
messed with Charlie Moon. With this comforting thought, she settled down, closed her eyes against the bright sunlight.

Moon reached over to the passenger side, lowered the sunshade.

By then, they had left the town behind. It seemed as if they might drive on forever without exchanging a word.

It was Sidewinder who broke the spell. Having watched the mouse escape into a cluster of prickly-pear cactus, the dog abruptly awakened to a world of reality that included hunger pains, aching joints, dozens of fascinating scents. The animal put his front feet on the front seat, plopped his head onto Daisy’s shoulder.

“Oh,” she said, pretending to be annoyed. “Go bother somebody else!”

Aside from Charlie Moon, there was no one else to bother and the hound had made his choice. In a gesture of endearment, he licked her on the ear.

“Aaaagh!” Daisy took a swat, missed his nose by an inch. Having failed in this violent act, she found a handkerchief in her pocket. “Now I’ve got dog spit in my ear.”

Moon kept his eye on the clump of cottonwoods down the road. “They say dog spit is loaded with antibiotics.”

She wiped at the offended ear. “Who’d say a fool thing like that?”

He admitted that he did not recall, then slipped in a casual remark. “After what happened, I’m surprised you wanted to go back to Garcia’s Crossing.”

Daisy almost made a tart retort, then clamped her mouth shut.

He cast her a crosswise glance. “Maybe you still think Mr. DeSoto is hiding Pansy Blinkoe in his house.” There being no response, Moon continued the conversation with himself. “Nah, that’s not likely.” He considered other possibilities. “I bet you think he’s got her stashed in his
garage.
”

Daisy took a deep breath, exhaled her version of a pithy proverb she’d heard long ago at the reservation boarding school. “It is better for a big jug head to keep his mouth shut and have people think he’s most likely a fool, than to start talking nonsense and remove all doubt.”

He nodded at this sage observation.

She waited in vain for her nephew to make another crack. Evidently, he had taken her advice to heart. Pleased, she decided to satisfy his unseemly curiosity. “When I was here last time, and talking to Mr. DeSoto, I kind of…lost my temper a little bit.”

Moon looked doubtful because he was. “I find that hard to believe. The part about ‘a little bit’.”

She ignored this. “After I had a talk with Father Raes, I made up my mind to come back. And apologize to Pineapple Head for what I’d said.”

Her nephew found this
impossible
to believe.

Daisy continued in a pious tone. “A Christian lady should not say unkind things to bad people.” She sniffed. “Even if every word of what she says is true.”

Moon smiled at the Garcia’s Crossing sign on the shoulder. “I’m proud to be your relative—you are a good example to us all.”

She nodded her agreement to this sensible remark. “It’s up to us elders to set the standard, so you young people will learn how to behave.”

He slowed to the forty-mph speed limit. “Where is Mr. DeSoto’s house?”

Pleased that Mr. Smarty Hat didn’t know
everything,
she pointed. “You can turn right there, just on the other side of St. Cuthbert’s.”

Across the highway from St. Cuthbert’s Catholic Church, inside the musty, dusty darkness of Pokey Joe’s General Store, the large woman in the oversized overalls watched through a fly-spotted window. The owner of the business establishment did not recognize the automobile turning into the dirt lane by the church, or the man behind the wheel—but that little woman in the passenger seat looked awfully familiar. Pokey Joe wondered why that old Indian woman had returned to Garcia’s Crossing.

Daisy Perika jerked at Moon’s sleeve. “Don’t drive up in his yard—park behind the church.”

“Is there any reason why—”

“I intend to do this by myself,” she snapped. “You can wait in the car.”

As he braked to a stop, Moon did not conceal his disappointment. “I’ve never seen you apologize to a living soul. I thought it’d be something I should witness, so I can tell my great-grandchildren about it.”

She snorted. “Before you can have great-grandchildren, you gotta have children. And before you can have children, you gotta find yourself a wife.”

“That’ll be no problem.” He came around to open her door, winked at his aunt. “I’ve got several hot prospects.”

She threw her head back. “Ha-ha.”

He had no ready response for this unkind remark. “You sure you don’t want me to come along for protection?” He took her arm as she got out.

She was grateful when her feet touched the ground. “I don’t need no protection.”

“I was thinking of Mr. DeSoto.”

Daisy chuckled. “Don’t worry. If he behaves himself, I won’t hurt him.”

“Yeah, but what if he gives you a crosswise look?”

“Then you can call his next of kin, ask ’em where they want the body sent.”

Charlie Moon watched his aunt stomp off with her walking stick, the hound at her heels. He wondered what life would be like without the mischievous old woman.

The almost-repentant sinner stood at the entrance to the loathsome man’s residence and prayed.
God, you and me both know what kind of yahoo this DeSoto is. But it’s my duty to do what Father Raes tells me, even if it don’t make no sense at all, so here I am.
She summoned up all of her resolve, which would barely have filled a ladybug’s thimble.
Well, here goes.
She tapped the door with her stick.

A raven winged its dark way over the roof, came to rest on the top of a telephone pole.

She tapped again. Harder.

The homely face appeared at the window, scowled. “It’s you.”

Daisy called upon the blessed virtue of Patience. When dealing with outright fools, one could not have too much of this commodity. “I know it’s me.” She said this sweetly.

DeSoto, whose midday meal had been interrupted, was no little bit annoyed, as well as bewildered. “What’re you doin’ here?”

She responded slowly, as if addressing a backward child. “If you’ll open the door, I’ll tell you.”

The pistol appeared in his hand. “You can tell me now.”

When dealing with a man who exhibited bad manners, Daisy had no need to call upon the virtue of Stubbornness—she had tons of the stuff close at hand. She stood her ground, shook her head. “Come to the door, we’ll talk,” she said. Then added: “Unless you’re scared of a little woman who’s old enough to be your great-grandmother.” She snickered. “But I guess that’s why you’re packing a gun. You’re afraid I might hurt you.”

That did it.

The face disappeared from the window, the door opened wide. The small revolver concealed in a hip pocket, DeSoto strutted out onto the board supported by cinder blocks. The ever-present cigarette dangled from his lips.

Charlie Moon had been watching his aunt from the cemetery. From what he could see, it appeared that her conversation with Mr. DeSoto was going along okay. The Ute heard footsteps, turned to see a smallish Hispanic man in coveralls and a battered cowboy hat. The fellow had a claw hammer in his hand, a Leatherman tool on his belt, a proprietary look on his face.

“Excuse me,” the hammer wielder said in a polite but firm manner, “but who are you?”

Moon introduced himself.

The old-fashioned gentleman tipped the brim of his hat. “I’m Henry Martinez.”

Moon noted that Henry’s surname was engraved on most of the mausoleums in the cemetery, probably eight out of ten tombstones. He smiled at the pleasant man. “They should call this place Martinez town.”

“I suppose they should.” Henry M. smiled back. “Nobody even remembers old Garcia’s first name. Or what it was he crossed.” His eyes narrowed. “If you don’t mind my asking—what are you doing here?”

Moon glanced toward the house behind the cemetery. “I brought my aunt.”

The member of the Martinez clan glanced at the Expedition, didn’t see anyone sitting up. It happened two or three times a year, people making unauthorized use of church property.
This Indian’s probably got her in the back of the car, rolled up in a blanket.
“Uh…if you plan to bury her here, you’ll need to get permission first.”

The Ute put on his best poker face. “You’re right about that.” He sighed. “If I buried Aunt Daisy without her say-so, she’d get mad as a scalded cat.”

It was clear that Mr. Martinez did not appreciate this sort of graveside humor.

“She’s come to visit Mr. DeSoto,” Moon explained. He nodded to indicate the residence across the cemetery fence.

“Oh, him.” Martinez frowned, started to say something, resisted the temptation to gossip.

Moon wondered what the man didn’t want to tell him about, decided to walk around it. “Looks like you’re a carpenter.”

“Jack-of-all-trades, master of none—that’s me.” Martinez gestured with the hammer. “With the church closed down, we have problems with vandals. Windows get broken, graffiti painted on the walls, that sort of thing.” He turned to gaze at the building. “I came by last week, found the lock on the back door broken. That’s what I’m here to fix.”

Daisy had to look at the repulsive man, but she tried not to dwell on his pockmarked face, the big hairy stomach bulging out from under the dirty orange T-shirt, the obscene remark printed on said garment. She could not help but notice that his belly button was half filled with something that looked like cotton fuzz, and wondered whether this odious person ever took a bath.
I might as well get this over with.
She cleared her throat, began the memorized speech. “Last time I was here, I said some things I shouldn’t.” This was extremely difficult. “I came back to…” It was, in fact, nearly impossible.
Help me, God.

DeSoto was openly suspicious. “You came back to
what?
”

If I don’t say it now, I never will.
“I came back to…to apologize.”

He stared dumbly at the wrinkled face.

Having gotten past the A-word, Daisy was relieved. She hurried on, eager to complete the ordeal. “I’m sorry about saying those unkind things.”

The object of her apology was not blessed with a fine memory for details. All he could recall about the encounter with the old woman was that it had been unpleasant. He craved to have his recollection refreshed. “What things?”

She shrugged. “Oh, about how you’re a pineapple head.”

He nodded. “Oh, yeah. I remember that.”

To be helpful, she added: “And potbellied.”

He belched a garlicky odor, scratched indolently at that prominent portion of his anatomy. Which reminded Daisy of another observation she had made.

“And I called you a blivit.”

He chuckled. “Oh, yeah. I remember that, too.” He gave her an admiring look. “You sure are a dirty-mouthed old woman. You remind me of my aunt Hilda.”

Daisy had to bite her tongue.
I have to remember, I am dealing with the head philistine.

“So,” he said. “Is that it?”

The visitor nodded. “That’s it.”

Feeling quite at ease now, DeSoto took a draw on the cigarette, looked around for some sign of an automobile. “You come out here by yourself?”

“Sure. I hitchhiked all the way from Ignacio.”

He blew smoke in the old woman’s face. “Must be hard for a crazy person to thumb a ride.”

Daisy closed her eyes, tried to imagine what Father Raes would do in a situation like this.

“When they find out you’re gone, I bet they won’t even come looking for you.” He snickered. “I mean the people who run the asylum for feebleminded old Indian broads.”

The church handyman had gone off to hammer at something, and Charlie Moon was about to resume the surveillance of his aunt. The tribal investigator would have witnessed something quite memorable—the sort of once-in-a-lifetime event that is not to be missed. But, alas—it was not to be; Sidewinder had sidled up by his knee. The hound was whining. Moon squatted to scratch the dog behind the ear. “What’s the matter, old fella—you ready to go home?” No, that wasn’t it. This was the old dog’s “come with me” whine. Ignoring the drama across the cemetery fence, Moon followed along behind.
I bet he’s got something treed.
But after a few steps, he smelled something unpleasant, and recalled the animal’s scholarly interest in the subject of week-old roadkill and other unsavory left-behinds.
Sidewinder’s found himself something ripe. I sure hope it ain’t a skunk.
Moon slowed his pace.
I’d better go back and see how Aunt Daisy is getting along….