The Shaman Laughs (15 page)

"Nice piece," Parris said. "My wife loved antiques."

Oswald noticed the past tense. "You are… separated from your wife?"

Parris tried to swallow the lump forming in his throat. "Helen died. Almost three years ago." He saw the question on the old man's face. "Automobile accident."

Oswald nodded sympathetically. "My mother, bless her sweet soul, passed away eleven years ago this past June."

It had been cancer, but he could not utter the cursed word. He felt a moistness gathering in his eyes. "Not a day goes by that I do not miss her. But," he added brightly, "my many activities fill my days." The loneliness hung over his hours like a dark curtain. "Excuse me, fellows. I'll go get some refreshment."

Oswald disappeared for a minute, then they heard a teakettle's shrill whistle. Their host returned with a large silver tray that needed polishing. He placed the refreshments on a marble-top table. "This is first-rate Darjeeling. I get it from an importer in San Francisco." He made the initial offering to Parris, first the tea, then a plate of cookies. "I normally serve the biscotti with a very special white wine, but, in deference to Charles, I will refrain from offering any alcohol."

Parris pretended not to have noticed the comment; if Moon was a recovering alcoholic, that was his business.

"You must dip the biscotti into the tea, but quickly. It is," Oswald added gravely, "a very
civilized
thing to do." A gentleman was obliged to attempt, against all odds, to civilize these rough fellows.

Parris dipped the thin cookie into the Darjeeling. Quickly. He took a bite of the moist pastry and found the experience to be rewarding. Moreover, he reminded himself, it was very civilized. "Not bad," he said, and licked his fingers.

Their host sighed; he accepted this response as the best that could be expected. "Now tell me; what undeserved twist of fortune brings a pair of policemen to my door on this gloomy day?"

"It's your lucky day," Moon said, "we brought you a present."

Oswald leveled a mock scowl at Parris. "Ask the Navajo or the Apache; they will tell you it is written on the stars"—he lifted his arms dramatically and gazed upward toward a ceiling of varnished oak panels—"… shun Utes bearing gifts."

Parris raised his cup in salute and grinned. "Saw it last night, right beside the drinking gourd."

Moon sat in placid silence, waiting for the tension to build in the old man.

Oswald shifted his weight in the cushioned chair. He crossed his legs. Drummed his fingers on the polished New Hampshire marble table at his elbow. Uncrossed his legs. Finally, it was too much. He looked out a window and pretended to watch a low cloud drift by the hilltop. "Ahhh… so what is this gift that you bring?"

Moon reached for the cookies. "Something for your little computer to chew on."

Oswald twisted a pointy mustache tip in nervous anticipation. "Ah—wonderful! But don't tell me… let me guess. A UFO report?" Moon's face said
no
. "A Sasquatch sighting? No? Wait, I know, you have finally decided to request my assistance in solving the mystery of the old shepherd who vanished in such an unusual fashion last year. Something Yacüti… was that his name?"

Moon groaned inwardly; why did everyone have to beat their gums about the Nahum Yacüti disappearance? "We had an animal mutilation."

Oswald's tea cup didn't quite get to his lips; his brows lifted ever so slightly. "You don't say. Some little old lady's kitty was…?"

"Hereford bull," Moon said. "Big fellow."

"Aha—much better! You were quite right to come to me about this mutilation. Now I'll do my imitation of Sherlock." Dramatically, Oswald Oakes closed his eyes and placed a palm on his forehead. "This crime occurred on reservation property, or you would not be investigating the incident. It was probably in a remote area…"

* 'That was a pretty safe guess, Oz. It was way up a canyon. Lonesome place." Moon popped two cookies into his mouth. These things were pretty flat. "You got some Oreos stashed away somewhere?"

Oswald leaned forward, the cigar clenched between his teeth. "Let us sweeten this inquiry with a wager. I'll give you two-to-one I can describe precisely how the bull was mutilated… precisely."

Moon shook his head and frowned. "You're getting way too big for your britches, Oz."

Ceremoniously, the old man removed a crisp twenty dollar bill from his wallet and waved it in Moon's face. "Put your money where your impertinent mouth is." He blew a smoke ring that drifted toward the ceiling.

The Ute laid a ten dollar bill onto the coffee table. "Okay, Sherlock. My Hamilton sees your Jackson." A man could not refuse free money.

"Ahhh… an interesting wager at last." Oswald closed his eyes and pressed his long fingers lightly against his temples. "Let me visualize what you have found. Ahhh… I can see it all now. The bull was missing its testicles."

The Ute grinned. "Good guess, Oz, but it's more complicated than that." He reached for the bills.

"But wait," Oswald said quickly, almost as an afterthought, "… did I forget to mention the ears?" He blinked at Moon and slapped a palm against his forehead. "Oh my, of course—the ears will certainly have been removed. And, needless to say," he added with an air of smug triumph, "the unfortunate animal will have been dispatched with a forceful blow to the skull." He lowered his voice to a soft monotone. "Is that sufficient, Charles, or shall I provide you with the name of the mutilator?"

Moon couldn't take his eyes off the pair of greenbacks. "A name. That would help."

"Then, because you are such a good loser, a name you shall have." Oswald smiled brightly and inserted the bills into his wallet. He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his neck. "I have been keeping records of mutilations for years. West of the Mississippi, there are only three mutila-tors of large animals who practice this arcane trade with any regularity. I know their habits and personalities well enough to assign names to each. Picasso rarely operates east of Utah, and almost never in the summer season. Butcher has not mutilated an animal in more than four years. Therefore," he snapped his fingers, "the mutilator must be Cain. And," he continued with an air of genial triumph, "Cain has a very characteristic method of mutilation, which I have already described. Of course, 'Cain' is not his actual name… merely a convenient identifier that I have assigned for… ahhh… reference purposes." He watched disappointment spread over the policemen's faces. Moon was, as always, patient. But this Scott Parris fellow seemed mildly annoyed. "Did you, by chance, bring along a photograph of the carcass?"

Moon reached into his shirt pocket. "Doc Schaid took these."

The old eccentric accepted the photos gratefully. "Harry Schaid is a fine veterinarian and a passable photographer. He has been quite helpful in my mutilation research." Oswald's eyes brightened as he inspected the photo of the hind quarters. "Of course. The very mark of Cain. Clean, straight incisions… like a skilled surgeon's work."

"Doc Schaid," Moon said, "is trying to help Gorman with an insurance problem; I expect he'll say the mutilation was the work of hungry coyotes."

Oswald dropped the spent cigar stub into an onyx bowl and removed a fresh Havana from a varnished walnut box. "He will say it was coyotes. But you will know better, Charles." He snipped the end off the cigar with a small scissors, and lit it.

"Well," Moon admitted, "coyotes don't normally have ears for breakfast when there's fresh beef tongue on the menu. And besides," he added, "the bull didn't die from what you'd call 'natural causes.'"

Oswald inhaled the fragrant tobacco smoke deep into his lungs, and coughed. "Of course not."

"Aside from his mutilation techniques," Parris asked, "what do you know about this 'Cain'?"

The old man was looking out a bay window at the sheets of driving rain. "I shall help you as much as I can," Oswald said dreamily, "but I doubt you will ever lay a hand on him." He took a long drag on the cigar, then went to his rolltop desk and rummaged around until he found a leather-bound journal. He pushed the reading glasses along the bridge of his nose, and grinned at the Ute policeman. "How about these odds, Charles—five to one. One hundred dollars to your twenty, that you will not apprehend Cain before he strikes again."

"Thanks," Moon said, "for the vote of confidence." But he would pass on this bet.

Oswald raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "I meant no insult, Charles. As a technical gambler, I always go with the statistics. If the mutilated creature had been a chicken or a puppy, you might get lucky and discover a foolish teenager playing at Satanism. But in the United States and Canada, virtually no one has ever been arrested, much less convicted, for the mutilation of a large animal."

Moon knew that Oswald had a point. The chances of arresting this space cadet was somewhere between zero and very small. He sighed, interlaced his fingers, and rested his chin on his hands. He wondered what Benita was doing. Right now. Probably helping her daddy round up the rest of their Hereford cattle. Or maybe… washing her hair. Maybe brushing her hair. Benita had beautiful hair.

Oswald noticed this prayerful posture. He also took note of the small wooden crucifix suspended on a silver chain around the Ute's neck. "Charles, if you are to have any chance of arresting Cain," he said in a mildly mocking tone, "perhaps you should resort to prayer… for a miracle." Oswald's eyes twinkled with barely suppressed merriment. "Those clever television detectives are invariably rewarded with a full disclosure of misdeeds when they confront the guilty party with some little shred of evidence. Yes, yes… have faith… surely the mutilator will confess his crimes to you." The old man chuckled, then blushed lightly. "I am sorry, Charles, I suppose that was impolite… but you must forgive me. Life has become rather tedious; I must find my amusement where I can."

Moon briefly lifted his teacup with both hands, as if it were a sacred chalice. "I forgive you, Oz." The Ute closed his eyes; his lips barely moved, as if in silent prayer.

Oswald was never quite sure when Moon was teasing him.

Perhaps that was why the big Ute was so difficult to defeat at poker. "I will want to get some information recorded," he said, "for my data base." He opened his notebook and held a gold-plated mechanical pencil over the page. "The owner of this deceased bovine is…?"

After a long pause, Moon raised his head. "The bull belonged to Gorman Sweetwater."

Oswald printed the name at the top of the page. "When did the mutilation of this bull occur?"

"Last Wednesday night; maybe early Thursday morning."

The old man was writing carefully, in a neat script. "Please describe the animal."

"Like I told you, Hereford bull. Registered stock. Gorman called him Big Ouray."

"Big Ouray." He pursed his lips as he wrote. "How very appropriate." Oswald abruptly left his chair and headed across the room toward the rolltop desk. He sorted through a box of computer disks until he found the one labeled mut/an. Oswald removed a laptop computer from his desk and brought the machine to a Queen Anne settee. He switched the computer on, slipped the floppy disk into the drive slot, and pressed a key with the eraser on his mechanical pencil.

Parris leaned on the small couch and watched over the old man's shoulder.

"I have," Oswald said with an air of weary virtue, "been gathering information for this mutilation data base for almost three decades. More than six hundred animals, mutilated in forty-two of the United States, and sixteen foreign countries."

"Impressive," Parris said without conviction. It was sad that an old man did not have better things to do with the few years he had left. But Parris wondered… what would
he
be doing in another twenty years? Or ten? It was a depressing speculation that he attempted to dismiss.

Oswald pressed the space bar to stop the rolling display. "Consider this. In the category of animals with ears and testicles removed, no more, no less, there are precisely six-teen cases. Excluding your Hereford bull, of course. Twelve of these mutilations occurred within five hundred miles of Durango, most were to the north and west. I am certain that Cain is responsible for all of them."

"This includes," Moon asked, "that elk, up in the Never Summers?"

Oswald highlighted the spreadsheet entry on the screen. "Right there, you see? Bull elk, discovered two years ago last September in the Never Summer range. Approximately thirty miles from Estes Park, on Forest Service land. Killed by unknown means. Ears and testicles removed. I was able to find the carcass shortly after Dr. Schaid called me to report the discovery of the mutilation."

"Could be the same guy that cut up Big Ouray," Moon said.

"Recently," Oswald offered in a cool, clinical fashion, "there has been evidence that this mutilator drains blood from the wound. Perhaps with some type of catheter. I am certain," he added grimly, "that Cain drinks the blood of his victims. This can only be the act of a mystic." You see, he pointed the mechanical pencil at Parris, "Cain absorbs the strength of the bull by consuming its blood."

Moon was about to put a cookie into his mouth; he returned it to the silver tray.

Scott Parris was mildly amused at the old man's naive belief that he could imagine the mind of the twisted person who did this thing. Oswald was a typical ivory-tower theorist; he had sufficient confidence in his intellect to confuse his educated guesses for certifiable facts. "What I can't understand," Parris muttered, "is how a man gets close enough to club a full grown Hereford bull."

"The way I figure it," Moon said, "some guy, let's call him Cain, hiked into the canyon, probably around midnight. The moon was up; there would be enough light. He's been there before, scouted the canyon, so he knows where the animals sleep. He comes in quietly, from downwind. The break in the skull was kind of irregular, so I figure he picked up a good-sized rock, maybe a chunk of sandstone." Oswald raised an eyebrow at this. Moon knew the look, but continued as if he hadn't noticed. "He takes his time, moves right up to the sleeping bull, conks him on the head. Then, he cuts—"