The Shaman Laughs (34 page)

Sensing his embarrassment, Emily spoke up quickly. "Herb… it's really so astonishing." She furrowed her pretty eyebrows in concentration. "You never really know people at all, do you?" She moved close, put her hand on his arm. "I'll want to hear about it, but not right now." The woman with the toy poodle increased the volume control on her hearing aid. She wasn't missing a syllable. "But not here," Emily added.

He understood. Or thought he did. "It'll keep till you're ready."

Emily caressed his forearm. "Drop by my house tonight. About dinner time."

"I had a late lunch," he said, "don't think I could hold much dinner."

"What I had in mind," she whispered in his ear, "was
dessert
."

"You want some coffee pardner?" Moon's casual tone seemed oddly contrived.

Parris exhaled as if he had been holding his breath for an hour. "If it's strong."

"Melts the spoon."

"Sounds like just the ticket."

Moon found a dingy mug. "You tell Emily about Herb Ecker? How he must have cut up her husband and stuffed his—"

"I lack your extraordinary gift for graphic expression, but I think she got the idea."

"Arlo," Moon said as he studied the faraway look on Parris's face, "hasn't been away from her bed all that long, but talk is that Emily's comb is already turning red."

Parris looked up. "Comb?"

"Old barnyard observation," the Ute said. "When a hen is ready for a rooster, her comb turns red."

"Barnyard," Parris sighed, "I should have guessed."

"You want to go get some supper? Angel's got a taco special tonight."

"No," Parris said with a great counterfeit yawn. "Been a long day. Guess I'll turn in early tonight." But perhaps, just perhaps… not before dessert.

"Early to bed," Moon said, "good idea for a fellow your age." The Ute looked sideways at the clock on the wall. The telephone rang. Without waiting for Nancy Beyal to perform her duty, Moon yanked the receiver to his ear. "Tribal police." He paused and grinned. "Sure he is, and he'll be tickled pink." He winked at Parris. "It's for you."

He pressed the receiver to his ear. "Parris here."

"Scotty?"

It was
her
. "Anne? Is it really you?" He spilled the coffee on his trousers and didn't notice. "Where are you? About to leave for the airport? You'll be in Denver in… no, don't rent a car, I'll be there at…"—he glanced at his watch—"about ten-thirty. No. Make that ten."

After listening to her quick good-bye, he dropped the receiver into its cradle and grinned at Moon. "Anne's flying in. All the way from Washington… I can't believe it!"

Moon grinned back. "Imagine that!"

"I'm driving up to Denver. To meet her. You know," he added hesitantly, "Chief Severo's due back in a few days. Maybe you could stand in as acting chief until then."

"I'll see it's taken care of, pardner." Sally Rainwater would make a fine chief of police, acting or otherwise.

Parris shook Moon's big hand. "Thanks."

"You'd better get moving then." Moon assumed a concerned expression. "You want me to give Emily a call, tell her you won't show up?"

Parris was puzzled. "Emily?"

"Emily Nightbird, your late date. You remember; the poor widder woman who has the red comb for you?"

Parris blushed. "How did you know… I mean about our… my appointment with Em—Mrs. Nightbird?"

Moon winked. "Heard it through the talking drums, pard-ner." The woman with the orange poodle had called Nancy Beyal.

Nancy left her station at the radio console after Parris was out of sight; she touched Moon's elbow. "Scott'll be pretty upset if he finds out you called Miss Foster, telling her to come home because he missed her so much he was starting to act crazy." Nancy actually thought it was a terribly romantic thing to do.

"He's my pardner," Moon said. "It's hard for him, Anne being so far away." Moon had some idea of how hard it really was.

"Or," Nancy whispered as she ran her fingertips along his sleeve, "maybe you want Scott out of the way because you're interested in Emily Nightbird for yourself." Emily was a pretty woman. Very pretty. And rich. Nancy pressed her sharp fingernails through his shirt sleeve, but Moon didn't notice. He was remembering. He was a child, back at the camp meeting with his parents. They had sat on hay bales under the junipers to listen to the words of the Navajo elder. This old evangelist who followed the Jesus Way had thundered the Good News to the forlorn little band of people whose ancestors had lost their land to the swarms of European invaders. It had seemed so foreign to him then, but now the words his mother sang rippled over the silence of the years. Charlie Moon could smell the pungent tang of the juniper, taste the alkali dust. The small child could see the Navajo evangelist raising his arms in adoration of the Source of all that was holy. He remembered every detail. His father's tears. His mother's sweet voice, so small, yet rising above the others as she sang.

"… filled with His goodness… lost in His love…"

His eyes tried to see through the curtain of darkness. Far, impossibly far away. Toward a place filled with goodness. Scented with the fragrance of wild spring flowers, rilled with the song of the Spirit. Where the Good Shepherd wiped every tear from the eyes of those who loved him. Where Benita Sweetwater lived. Lost in His love.

Scott Parris was at the gate when the lumbering jet rolled to a stop. Anne was among the first to exit the plane, but they were still locked in an embrace after the other passengers had disappeared. If it was possible, she was even more wonderful than he had remembered. Scarlet hair still fell over her shoulders in great waves, her eyes were still great pools of blue fire. And she still carried the faint scent of honeysuckle.

From the moment he pulled the Volvo out of the short-term parking lot, Anne talked nonstop about her hot stories on the firing of the president's press secretary, the deepening rift between Russia and the Ukraine, the latest gossip on the vice president's feud with NASA. They were an hour south of Denver when she finally ran out of steam. "Sorry, Scotty. I've hardly let you say a word. What have you been up to in Ignacio while I've been away?" Charlie Moon's urgent call had been suggestive, even mysterious. But the Ute had really told her nothing except that Scott needed her.

For the second time in twenty-four hours, he blushed. Fortunately, it was too dark for her to see this guilty reaction. "We've had a really strange case. A mutilated bull, then a murdered man who was mutilated exactly like the bull. On top of that, a couple of college kids are dead, a Ute girl and a Belgian exchange student. And the old Ute woman, Daisy Perika, is dreaming her dreams. You remember Daisy."

"How could I forget her? But a murder! Have you caught the killer?"

She noticed that he hesitated. Just a little. "The FBI thinks the Belgian kid, stoned on drugs, killed the bull and the Ute guy."

She snuggled close. "I want to hear the whole story. Every awful, gory detail."

He recounted Daisy Perika's strange vision of shadows, an owl that killed men, Benita Sweetwater's deathbed confession, the wild encounter with Herb Ecker. He didn't mention the fact that Ecker had died because he had threatened Charlie Moon's friend with an
empty
revolver. That particular secret, he would take to the grave.

Anne listened silently. When he was finished, she frowned. "So this Herb Ecker killed the bull, then murdered this awful Nightbird person?"

"Looks that way."

She sensed a certain reservation in his tone. He was not certain.

Parris watched the endless trail of headlights heading north on Interstate 25. "You know," he said, "with you here, everything is just perfect. Nothing could happen that would ruin this night."

The jazz on the FM radio was interrupted by a perky female voice. "This is Nightbeat, the pulse of metropolitan Denver. Our guest tonight is FBI special agent James E. Hoover. No relation to the famous J. E. Hoover." She laughed automatically, as if it were in the script.

Parris turned the volume up.

"… I understand the FBI has solved the mutilation-murder case on the Southern Ute Reservation with the identification of a Belgian student as the criminal. You must be very gratified…"

Hoover's tone was flavored with a smooth, almost folksy humility. "Well, you must understand that I didn't do it all by myself. In addition to the Bureau's excellent forensics laboratory, I had the entire staff of the Southern Ute Police under my direction. Without their tireless footwork, my development of the evidence leading to Herb Ecker might have taken much longer."

Scott Parris felt a sense of unreality, disconnection. This wasn't happening.

The female voice continued: "What evidence links this suspect to the mutilations?"

Hoover's voice barely betrayed his uncertainty. "The suspect precisely fits our profile of the murderer-mutilator. He had motive and means and opportunity."

"I understand that Mr. Ecker was killed before he could be interrogated about the mutilations___"

"Yes," Hoover said sorrowfully. "The officers responsible for that action were not operating under my direct supervision when the shooting occurred. There will be a thorough investigation of Mr. Ecker's death, but the Bureau has no solid evidence… uh… at this time… that Mr. Ecker's civil rights were violated by the two policemen responsible for his death."

Parris gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. "That sanctimonious little son-of-a-bitch!"

The interviewer continued. "I understand that you are somewhat of an authority on Ute culture." Hoover had told her as much in the pre-interview conference.

"Well," Hoover said modestly, "I'm still learning, but I do pride myself on understanding the psyche of the Utes. They're really a great bunch of folks. With a little assistance from the Bureau, the Southern Ute Police have real potential of becoming a first-rate law enforcement operation."

"Would you like to tell us who, among the Ute policemen, helped you the most in solving this case?"

"Well… I'd really like to name some names for your audience, but you know how it is, if you forget even one person you're in big trouble." Hoover chuckled amiably. "I'd just like to congratulate the entire staff on the Southern

Ute police force for their excellent support of this important FBI case."

When the interview was completed, the station cut to a commercial spot hyping a deodorant soap. Anne shook her head in wonder. "He practically accused you and Charlie Moon of misconduct. That is simply astonishing."

"Not when you get to know him," Parris said bitterly. "It's vintage Hoover." He wondered why Sam Parker didn't sack this idiot. Did Hoover have some political juice?

Anne was using the mirror on the sun visor as she touched up her lipstick. "Tell me, once more, word for word, what Daisy Perika said about the owl dipping its talons in blood."

"I can't remember it that precisely," Parris said wearily. "There was this shadow that turned into an owl. It killed a Ute. That'd be Arlo Nightbird. Then it became a shadow again."

"An owl. Shadows. Symbols," Anne whispered. "Her visions are in symbols. But remind me; what did that poor boy say just before he died?"

"Said he'd come to dance. Then, he said something about a shadow coming. Swift and sudden. Dark and dreary. Stuff like that."

"Robert Service poetry," she said sadly, " 'March of the Dead.' Not particularly cheerful." Anne leaned over and kissed him on the neck.

He swerved onto the shoulder, then back onto the pavement. "You can do that again."

She did.

Daisy trudged along the deer path. When she got to the barbed wire fence that kept Gorman's Herefords in Spirit Canyon, she moved to the canyon wall and squeezed past the last cedar post. As she climbed the slight grade into
Canon del Espiritu
, the old woman stopped several times to lean on her oak staff and catch her breath. With every year, the walk seemed longer, the path steeper. Before a long time would pass, her breath would be gone forever and she would walk through
Na-gun-tu-wip
, where the spirits of the wan-dering dead dwell. As she passed through, wolves would howl and threaten her with bared teeth; serpents would hiss at her bare feet—but if she could maintain her courage she would pass over that great chasm to that land of everlasting light where she would put on a new, strong body. A body that would never grow old.

But that would come later, at the appointed time. Now, she was old and her back ached. Daisy consoled herself with the comforting knowledge that the path back to her trailer home would be downhill.

As she approached the abandoned badger-hole that was the entry into the home of the
pitukupf
, she paused and carefully dropped an offering of corn pollen onto the sandy canyon floor. The figure she drew with the pollen was a circle within a circle: the sun encircling the moon. This done, she approached the hole cautiously and squatted, hugging her staff with one arm. How long had he lived here? A thousand years? A thousand centuries? The shaman removed a brown paper parcel from her apron pocket and unwrapped it as she gave thanks to the One Spirit who guarded all creation. Daisy placed two new packages of Flying Dutchman pipe tobacco on the sand beside the badger hole. It was the
pitukupf's
favorite brand, much to be preferred over
kinnikin-nik
, the wild tobacco that grew in the canyon. She spread a yellow paper napkin beside the tobacco and placed a shiny pocket knife with red and green plastic handles on the center of the napkin. The pocket knife was inexpensive, but the dwarf had no concept of money. And he would appreciate the bright colors. It would never have occurred to the shaman to doubt that soon after she left, the little creature would retrieve the tobacco and the pocket knife.