The Shaman Laughs (14 page)

"You can't kill
loup-garou
with ordinary bullets," she said, shaking her finger at the Ute. "In Quebec, my father would load a shotgun shell with exactly twelve rosary beads. One for each of the Holy Apostles!"

As they drove away, Parris watched the little figure in the porch swing. "What's the story here?"

"Louise Marie," Moon said, "married an Iroquois up in Quebec by name of Henry Gray Dog. He brought her here thirty-odd years ago. Worked in the oil fields down by Farm-ington. Did some guide work for the elk hunters; I heard he was a first-rate tracker. Back in ninety-one, Henry left for a hike one morning. Hasn't been seen since. Louise figures he'll come back someday; that's why she never went back to her family in Canada." Moon paused to wonder what had really happened to Henry Gray Dog. Dead, most likely. "She's lonesome. Probably drinks a little too much homemade wine. I stop by to check on her from time to time."

"Sounds like she's a lot of trouble for you," Parris said.

Moon didn't reply. He was wondering about Louise Marie's
loup-garou
. What had the old woman seen?

Scott Parris, flat on his back, squinted at an electric light that was suspended on a long brass chain from the ceiling of the gymnasium. He gave up a vain attempt to find a comfortable position. He did find some comfort in the knowledge that the big Ute was on the next table. Herb Ecker appeared at his elbow, rolling his sleeve down. "This is the first time I have donated blood," the insurance salesman said in a Germanic accent. "It was not so difficult."

"Nah," Parris agreed. "Kinda like a bee sting." The nurses who inserted the needles always said that. Like a bee sting was nothing.

"You should have seen Dr. Schaid," Ecker said. "The veterinarian told them to take an extra pint."

"Doc Schaid's a sissy compared to my pardner," Moon chimed in. "Now Scott Parris, he's not afraid of hollow-point bullets or needles big as your thumb."

Ecker smiled and left with some comment about how it was a good feeling to give a part of yourself to help others. Parris turned his head to see Moon, whose boots extended well over the edge of the six-foot table. "I thought we were on our way to see this guy up in Durango. You didn't say anything about getting bled."

Moon folded his hands over his chest. "Our civic duty, pardner. Besides, we got a kind of competition with the Ig-nacio town cops. Last year, they gave two more pints than the reservation police."

Parris closed his eyes when Cecelia Chavez, the public health nurse, pushed his sleeve up and wrapped a section of surgical rubber tubing around his arm. "You look kind of pasty. You feel all right?"

"Pasty is my normal complexion."

Cecelia grinned as she tapped on his arm to find a suitable vein. "All you big men are such babies when it comes to such a teeny little pinprick." She nodded toward her right. "You see Emily Nightbird over there?" Parris opened one eye but could not see the pretty woman. "Emily organizes the Ignacio drive every year, and she's always the first one to donate blood. And Nancy Beyal, bless her little heart, she was here an hour ago. If Nancy can give a pint, we ought to get a quart from you." Cecelia scowled toward Charlie Moon. "And someone the size of this big horse ought to give us a good half gallon." The public health nurse nudged Parris's ribs with her elbow. "You know what Charlie did a few years back? When he didn't want to give blood?"

Parris was eager to distract himself from this nervous woman who wielded a needle with hands that fluttered like aspen leaves in the wind. "I'm only interested if it's something that'll sully his reputation."

"That big galoot," she whispered, "filled out the donor's form with a pack of lies. Said he had every disease from hepatitis to TB. We took his blood anyway."

"Oh, I don't know that he was joking," Parris replied without smiling. "I've heard nasty rumors about Charlie and some kind of awful social disease…"

"After you get his pale
matukach
blood," Moon muttered to Cecelia, "see if you can snap the needle off in his arm."

Emily Nightbird appeared, and placed the tips of her fingers lightly on Parris's hand. "Hello, again. It's so kind of you to help us."

Parris tried to nod, but it was a difficult maneuver with his head resting on the stainless steel table. "My pleasure," he lied.

Emily leaned over. Her dark hair fell close to his face; he caught the scent of a deliciously fragrant perfume. "I hope you don't mind the procedure… some donors are bothered by the needle."

Parris forced a hearty chuckle. "Needles? Nah. No problem." He winced only slightly as the nurse shoved a stainless cylinder into his forearm, completely missing the vein.

"Now squeeze that rubber ball I put in your hand," Cecelia commanded. "Pump, pump!" She sighed with disappointment. "Well, well, you got little bitty veins like a girl. No flow at all. I'll give it a couple more tries. If that don't work, we'll have to jab the other arm."

Daisy Perika was trudging up the incline from her mailbox when she heard Gorman's pickup behind her. The rancher pulled over and got out. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a crumpled envelope from the Nightbird Insurance Agency. "Look," Gorman growled, "at this."

Daisy removed the contents and frowned at the perforated blue paper; her lips moved as she read the figure on the check. "Four hundred and twelve dollars. And twenty-two cents." She looked up at her cousin's grim face. "Big Ouray was worth thousands, is this all the insurance will pay?"

"There won't be no payment on Big Ouray. That's a refund on my policy; it's been canceled." He coughed, threw a half-spent cigarette butt onto the path and ground it viciously under his boot heel. "Arlo claims there was a mistake when them papers was filed. Says that Ecker kid wrote one number wrong when he copied Big Ouray's registration. I figures he's doctored the papers, but that makes my insurance not worth a shiny dime."

"Arlo's found a way to keep from paying, then," Daisy said with stoic resignation.

Gorman's hands shook as he produced a tobacco sack and attempted to pour its contents into a flimsy cigarette paper. "That little bastard—he always finds a way." The old man spilled half the tobacco and muttered a curse. "I should of got my insurance with one of them outfits up in Durango, instead of trying to save money on the premium."

Daisy opened her mouth to remind her cousin that she had told him this, but decided to remain silent. Gorman was suffering enough right now. Later, he would be feeling much better. Then she would remind him.

"So," Parris asked, "this Oswald Oakes is a friend of yours?"

"Oz," the Ute said thoughtfully, "is a guy I play cards with." Friends were few and far between, and Oz didn't quite make the grade. Moon pulled the Blazer to the curb behind a blue Miata convertible. The towering house perched uncertainly on the crest of a forested hill that sloped gently toward the rocky banks of the Animas. "His main interest is collecting stuff. Old books. Antiques. Prehistoric artifacts." Moon reached to the rear seat for his wide-brimmed Stetson and jammed it down to his ears. "Oz is a pretty good source of information." And, because he'd never quite gotten the hang of five-card stud, a pretty good source of income.

"Information?"

"On odd things." Moon switched off the ignition. "UFO reports. Monster sightings."

"And let me guess—animal mutilations?"

The Ute nodded as he set the emergency brake and opened the door. "He keeps a set of files. I guess it's kind of a game for him." For Oz, everything was a game.

Parris pulled his hat brim over his forehead to shield his eyes from the stinging rain. "You figure he'll help us sort out this bull mutilation?"

"Could be," Moon said as he made giant strides up the red brick sidewalk toward the front door.

Parris shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets; his cold fingers found a roll of antacid mints in one pocket, aluminum foil packets of Alka-Seltzer in the other. He stood behind Charlie Moon while the Ute policeman banged on the door. They waited. Moon pounded again, rattling the ivory-tinted lilies on the stained-glass panes. "Hey, Oz… open up, it's raining on my new hat!" Presently they heard muffled sounds of footsteps from somewhere deep inside the three-story Victorian house. An angular, bony man dressed in old-fashioned woolen trousers and a blue silk shirt opened the door. He removed his gold-framed reading glasses, dropped them into a shirt pocket, and blinked uncertainly at his visitors. Parris peeked past Moon at the man who leaned lightly on a cane. Oswald, who was almost as tall as Charlie Moon, sported a well-groomed goatee and a faultless mustache that appeared to be lightly waxed at the tips. He removed the stub of a cigar from his mouth and pointed the smoking end at his visitors. "Well, now, what do we have here," he said amiably. "From your unkempt appearance, you certainly are not a pair of itinerant Mormons."

"We're the law," Moon said grimly. "And we're here on official business."

Oswald laughed soundlessly and made a sweeping gesture of welcome with the cane. "Come in. But wipe your boots on the mat." He eyed Parris with an almost childlike curiosity. "You are not a Ute. Do I know you?"

"Oz," Moon replied, "say hello to my pardner, Scott Parris."

He had already heard about the Ute's new friend from Granite Creek; perhaps Charlie would not be coming around so often now. It was rumored that this pair of policemen spent all their spare time angling for trout in the mountain streams. Oswald could not fathom the attraction of such a pointless activity. He looked hopefully at Parris. "Are you a player? Cards, I mean."

Parris shook Oswald's outstretched hand. "I enjoy the occasional hand of poker."

Their host raised an eyebrow. "What is your game? Five Card Stud? Seven?"

"In Granite Creek, some of the cops have a Tuesday night game. Mostly, it's Five Card Stud or Spit in the Ocean." But there had been other games, in other places. "Mexican

Stud, or Shotgun," he said in a barely audible voice, "that's what we played in Chicago." Chicago. The very name of the city had power to resurrect sharp memories, both sweet and bittersweet. Crisp lake breezes scented oh so lightly with the aroma of dead fish. Polish sausage sandwiches at the Ninety-third Street drive-in. Faithful comrades on the force whose coarse jokes and loud laughter would be heard nevermore. And, of course, Helen. Who was nevermore. So much was gone.

Oswald, sensing that Parris had drifted away, turned to Moon. "Charles, I must confess—I am tiring of poker." He had lost too many hands to the Ute. "We must try a new game."

Moon, who had been expecting this complaint about poker, hung his new hat on the stilettolike antler of a prong-horn antelope trophy. Once you got to know Oz, the patterns of the old man's moods and thoughts could be anticipated, and this predictability was his fatal weakness as a gambler. Their gaming had begun with checkers. Then chess. Then straight pool. Finally, poker. But Oz tired of any contest when he hit a losing streak, and began talking about a "new game."

"What'd you have in mind?"

Oswald took Moon's jacket and hung it on another antler. "I would prefer a new contest… one that challenges the intellect."

The Ute policeman had financed most of his new house with winnings from these games. And it wasn't like Oz couldn't afford it. "When you decide, let me know what your fancy is."

Oswald brightened. "You have not been around for awhile…" He glanced uncertainly, almost jealously, at Scott Parris, then back at Moon. "Are you sure you will be available?"

"I'll have to check my work schedule. Between the SUPD and my unfinished house, I don't have much time for anything but work." Maybe that was why he hadn't made an effort to visit Benita. Or maybe work was just an excuse.

He promised himself to visit the Sweetwater ranch tomorrow. Or maybe sometime next week.

Parris, who picked up the occasional arrowhead, gaped at a display case filled with a half-dozen pieces of "killed" Mimbres pottery from New Mexico, exquisitely chipped obsidian blades crafted by the Hopewell mound builders in Ohio, carved shell jewelry from the Baja, and other odd bits and pieces that he could not identify. After their host offered a brief summary of this portion of his artifact collection, the policeman followed Oswald down a paneled hall that opened into a large parlor. The centerpiece of the room was a pool table; The balls, racked in a triangular array on the felt-covered slate, awaited players. Around the table, a dozen pieces of mismatched antique furniture were scattered over a heavy carpet. One wall was decorated with old Navajo rugs and a pair of broad windows that overlooked the shady lawn; two walls were filled floor to ceiling with books. Not one of the books looked new. Moon, who was at ease in any environment, dropped his heavy frame onto a flimsy looking Queen Anne chair. The chair creaked ominously as its delicate cabriole legs spread slightly.

Oswald winced. "Please be careful, Charles. That chair was constructed by highly skilled craftsmen in 1708.1 would like it to see the New Year."

Parris stood uncertainly, scanning the parlor for a chair with a sturdy appearance. Oswald pointed; "try the Chippendale; it is middle Georgian." Their host stroked the varnished arm of the chair like another man might caress the neck of a favorite dog. "Wonderful mahogany, don't you think?"