Snake Dreams (27 page)

“Dang it all, Charlie, I wanted to enjoy surprising you. Nancy Yazzi left the F-150 in a strip mall parking lot.” The dieter popped an Oreo into his mouth, chewed, gulped it down.

“Surprise me by telling me that the guns Nancy took were in the truck.”

“You’ll have to settle for a half surprise. The shotgun was stashed behind the seat, but it looks like she took the pistol with her.”

Moon groaned. “I hope she don’t shoot somebody with that big .44.”

“I hope so too.” Parris took a sip of chocolate milk.

“Is Sarah’s pickup messed up?”

“Don’t know for sure. Battery was flat because the parking lights had been left on. But when the Pueblo cops jumpered it, it started up and ran—so it’s probably drivable. Oh, I almost forgot—there was a note to Sarah in the glove compartment, which is where Miss Yazzi left the keys. Some stuff about how sorry she was, had to ‘borrow the truck without asking.’ ”

“That was mighty thoughtful.”

Parris reached for another Oreo. “You gonna tell the kid the great news?”

“I’ll check her truck out first. How soon’ll Pueblo PD be willing to turn it loose?”

“I fixed things so you can pick it up by noon tomorrow. The chief over there is a buddy of mine.” To close the deal, Scott Parris had mentioned that the stolen vehicle was Charlie Moon’s birthday gift to a sweet little orphaned Indian girl, and that Sarah was a straight-A student who was taking care of a feeble old Ute woman.

“I appreciate that.”

“I told ’em you’d probably show up tomorrow to sign for it.”

“I’ll get Jerome to drive me. We’ll head east at first light.”

“No need to pry the Kyd away from his work. I’ll show up at sunup and take you to Pueblo myself.”

And that was that.

Except for one small matter.

We refer to what was about to occur in Daisy Perika’s bedroom.

Not that Daisy has the least doubt. But it is a reasonable question, and one that is difficult to answer. Perhaps it is merely the persistent remnant of a bad dream. However the
experience should be classified, when the shaman opened her eyes—there it was. Looking back at her.

DAISY WAS
mightily displeased and she had every right to be. It was one thing to encounter the odd disembodied soul in the environs of her remote home on the Southern Ute reservation, where such invasions of her privacy were almost commonplace. Her isolated dwelling was barely outside the wide mouth of Cañón del Espíritu, which had that name for a good reason. And do not assume that locals called it Spirit Canyon because a mere two or three disembodied souls drifted about in the shelter of a few soot-blackened Anasazi overhangs. The spirits absolutely
swarmed
there. No recent census had been taken, but Daisy believed there were hundreds of the departed in the canyon, waiting for the earthshaking blast of that final trumpet. With this sort of eccentric population so close at hand, it was not surprising that from time to time one would accost the shaman as she strolled in the canyon. Less often, one of these lonely souls would enter her bedroom while she was trying to get some rest, and wake her up. This might be accomplished by giving her big toe a painful twist or yanking the quilt right off her, and a wild-eyed Apache spirit would shout his unintelligible gibberish in her ear! (Daisy referred to the Apache tongue, and all others excepting Ute, English, and Spanish, as gibberish.)

The point was that here on the Columbine, such disturbances were not supposed to occur. Especially when she was in her cozy downstairs bedroom, snuggled up under the covers. It just wasn’t
right.
But it did happen tonight.

Which was why, when she awoke around about midnight to see the dead woman sitting on the foot of the bed, Daisy was greatly annoyed. With the darkest scowl she could muster in the middle of the night, she addressed the uninvited guest in this manner: “Chiquita—you are beginning to get on my nerves.”

Because only the shaman could see and hear the presence,
we have only her word for it that the apparition apologized for being such a nuisance—and gave every appearance of being truly remorseful. Which softened the Ute elder somewhat.

“Well, that’s all right.”
I guess she’s lonesome and don’t have nobody to talk to except the monkey.

Daisy referred to the agitated squirrel monkey with the red collar fastened around its neck. The homely little fellow, restrained on a leash gripped firmly in Chiquita’s right hand, sat on Daisy’s bed, tail curled over its head. The creature gawked at the Ute elder, waved its skinny arms—jabbered at her in silly monkey gibberish.

Ignoring her noisy pet, Chiquita explained that she had come to thank Daisy.

The Ute woman arched her left brow. “Thank me for what?”

Why, for doing what she could to help Nancy. The apparition also stated that she was grateful to Sarah Frank and Charlie Moon for their kindness to her naughty daughter, and Chiquita was mortified that the silly girl had stolen Sarah’s red pickup truck.

Daisy shrugged.
Now get out of here and take your ugly monkey with you.

The visitor was not quite ready to depart. She allowed as how, if she ever had the opportunity, she would like to do something to return the favor.

Daisy was about to repeat the instruction about hitting the road with the monkey
aloud
when she recalled a tantalizing tidbit of gossip about the late Hermann Wetzel. “Back when you folks lived in Ignacio, folks said that Hermann wouldn’t keep any of his money in the bank. Word was, your husband put his life savings in a coffee can and buried it someplace in the backyard.”

The ghost begged to disagree. Chiquita knew for a fact that her husband had kept his liquid assets in a zippered canvas bag, which he’d kept hidden someplace in the garage. Or the workshop. Or maybe the tool shed. Sadly, she had never been able to find it.

This was not encouraging, but Daisy persisted. “After
Hermann moved to Granite Creek, where d’you suppose he kept it then?”

The confounded monkey, who had been remarkably still for these past few moments, bared a fine set of pointy teeth at the shaman.

Chiquita gave the leash a cruel yank that almost pulled the creature’s tiny head off.

The startled primate flailed its skinny arms and legs and, as soon as it got its breath, let out one of those raucous shrieks that scatter flocks of multicolored birds in tropical rain forests and startle sweaty scientists who are busy netting exotic insects.

Having gotten her pet’s attention, the leash holder ordered the agitated beast to answer Daisy’s questions.

The creature shook its head and rattled off what sounded (to Daisy) like a string of monkey curses.

Puzzled by this peculiar interplay between the dead woman and her pet, the Ute woman posed a pertinent question: “How would this little booger know where Hermann hid his—” Daisy had gotten a close look at the animal.
Oh my goodness—the ugly face on that monkey is Hermann Wetzel’s!

After more harsh jerks of the leash applied by his mistress, the Hermann Wetzel look-alike revealed (in monkey gibberish, which Chiquita evidently understood) that the bankroll was in a small bag concealed under the floor of his final earthly home.

Daisy craved more-specific information:
Where under the floor?

But Hermann W was a spunky little monkey, and no matter how many neck jerks and dire threats Chiquita applied, he would say no more. Moreover, he gave his former mate an enthusiastic bite on her thumb. Which was when Daisy noticed that the leash was fastened to Chiquita’s wrist with an iron band. The unhappy couple were mutual prisoners, fastened together for . . . how long?

Thankfully, Daisy was not privy to such information.

As the tribal elder contemplated their terrible entanglement,
Chiquita and her monkey-husband vanished. Not in a puff of vaporous smoke or a flash of blinding light, but they were definitely gone.

The weary old woman fell back onto her pillow, lay there with eyes wide open. Stretched out beyond her were those gray, lonely hours that linger ever so long before touching dawn. But, by and by, when a rising sun bathed her bedspread in liquid gold, Daisy Perika knew what she was going to do. More or less.

Daisy’s Opportunity

When the sun was barely over the Buckhorn Range, Daisy Perika and Sarah Frank got out of bed to find themselves alone in the house. No Charlie Moon. This was not remarkable; the busy stockman often departed before daylight to attend to the latest emergency, which might be anything from a busted pump in an irrigation well to a drunken employee in the GCPD jail who expected the boss to go his bail.

They found a note on the dining-room table:

I expect to be back a little while after sundown.

Charlie

Daisy had little to say during breakfast with Sarah. The sly old woman was too busy
thinking.
Always a risky occupation, though not so much for the tribal elder as for Western civilization, which seems always to be teetering on the brink of the abyss. In this particular instance there was no telling what the outcome might be.

After breaking her fast, the cranky old soul stood at one of the parlor’s large west windows, gazing in the direction of Too Late Creek bridge. It was unnaturally quiet. The Ute elder put her nose close to the glass; her gaze darted this way and that. No sign of the usual hireling lurking about. The reference is to the
unfortunate employee whom Daisy’s nephew assigned to “keep an eye on the old lady.”
Maybe he forgot.
Charlie had a lot on his mind lately, what with that silly Yazzi girl making off with Sarah’s pickup and some guns.
That one’s just as bad as her mother and I’d bet a shiny silver dollar to a wooden nickel that Nancy’ll end up just like her. Dead and pulling an ugly little monkey around on a leash.
Daisy breathed a melancholy sigh.
It’d be just like Chiquita Yazzi to bring her wacky daughter along when she comes to pester me.
The shaman nodded to agree with herself.
Some night, I’ll wake up and there they’ll be—the
both
of ’em sitting on the foot of my bedstead, yapping their heads off about how all their troubles are my fault and why don’t I go and do this and that to get things straightened out.
She ground her teeth.
Why can’t dead people just let me alone?

The old woman felt two pairs of eyes staring at the back of her head. Daisy turned to discover Sarah Frank and the spotted cat gazing at her. The Ute-Papago orphan was clutching Mr. Zig-Zag to her neck. “I wonder when Charlie will be back.” She rubbed her chin on cat fur. “I wish he’d asked us if we wanted to go with him.”

Daisy snorted at such a silly notion. “Men don’t think about things like that—not a one of them.” She banged her oak staff on the floor. “When they get ready to take off somewhere and have a good time, they just get up and go—and leave the women behind to cook and clean and wash their dirty clothes!” Neither Daisy nor Sarah was expected to do any chore at the Columbine, but never mind. This impromptu lecture on the war between the sexes had nothing to do with facts. Daisy leaned on her staff and pointed a crooked finger at the girl. “And I know what I’m talking about—I’ve had me three husbands and not one of ’em who’d take me to town to get a hamburger or see a picture show unless I threw a fit!”

The sixteen-year-old’s eyes filled with tears. “Charlie’s not like that.”

“Oh he’s not, ain’t he?” Daisy jerked a thumb over her
shoulder. “Then why’s he gone and left you and me behind to mope around this big house?”

Sarah had no answer to that. A salty tear dripped off her face, onto the cat’s ear, which flicked.

Daisy muttered under her breath, “One thing you have to say for Nancy, when she decided it was time to go, she didn’t wait around for some man to take her—she stole some guns and a truck and hit the road.” Seen from this perspective, the Yazzi girl’s action seemed pardonable. Almost admirable. Daisy’s wrinkled brow managed to furrow even deeper.
Which gives me an idea.
An impish smile curled her lips. “Sarah, something just come to me.”

“What?”

Daisy told her.

Sarah could hardly believe her ears. “You want me to steal one of Charlie’s pickups?”

This girl had too many principles, scruples—bothersome stuff like that. Daisy assumed a doubtful expression. “Did I say ‘steal’?”

“Yes!”

“Well, imagine that. I guess it’s because I’m getting old as Moses, but sometimes when I try for one word—out pops another one.” Her hunched little frame shook with a chuckle. “What I meant to say was we could
borrow
one of Charlie’s trucks and go for a ride into town.”

Sarah thought it over.

Daisy patted her on the arm. “We’d be back long before Charlie gets home.”

The girl shrugged. “I guess that’d be okay.”

Daisy pointed toward the kitchen. “The spare truck keys are on a pegboard by the back door.”

Sarah placed her cat on a leather couch, departed to select an ignition key.