The Shaman Laughs (21 page)

Daniel Bignight bought ten dollars of the action because he felt an obligation to show solidarity with his fellow Native American officers. The boss was tough enough, but he was slow. The fed would chop him up.

Parris nodded toward a deer path that meandered off into the pines. "Mr. Hoover, I suggest we discuss our differences in private. Let's you and me take a little walk." Because he did not know what else to do, the special agent followed Parris, who stopped when they were barely out of sight and removed his jacket. He dropped his shoulder holster onto the jacket, and turned to face Hoover. "It's high time we got this sorted out."

"I'd like nothing better," Hoover said evenly, "soon as I'm off duty." There were now no witnesses to testify that the cop had started a fight. This was not good.

"We are," Parris said evenly, "going to settle this now."

Hoover's face was like flint. "I taught hand-to-hand combat at Quantico."

"Thanks for the warning." It
was
a useful piece of information.

There was no delaying the inevitable. Hoover sighed and shook his head; he had no choice but to teach this thickheaded cop a hard lesson. The special agent unbuttoned his jacket; his arms were still entangled in the sleeves when he saw Parris launch a right hook. He tried to duck. Too late. The heavy blow landed on his jaw, the sunlight went out, and the cold ground slapped him hard on the back. The special agent drifted helplessly, somewhere in that dim world just this side of utter nothingness.

Parris leaned against a pifton, and waited. He rubbed his sore knuckles. They ached terribly. They felt good. He felt better.

Hoover's leg twitched; he grunted. He sat up, gingerly rubbing his jaw, then struggled to get to his feet. "This isn't over."

Parris gripped Hoover's arm to steady him. "Yeah," he said gently, "I know." He followed the groggy man back to the throng of expectant policemen.

When the state trooper saw the lumpy bruise on Hoover's jaw and his staggering gait, he glumly passed a crisp twenty dollar bill to Sally Rainwater, who wasn't surprised. Daniel Bignight was greatly relieved; he gloated openly as he pocketed a pair of fives.

Parris's head had stopped throbbing, the dull pain in the wisdom tooth was barely noticeable. He interrupted the embarrassed silence as if nothing unusual had happened. "What we have here, Mr. Hoover, is the body of Mr. Arlo Nightbird. He's been struck on the head." On the forehead, to be exact. The mark of Cain?

"Anything else?" Hoover unconsciously pushed his tongue against a loose molar.

Moon smiled merrily at the special agent. "You remember Big Ouray?"

Hoover's eyes widened with suspicion. "If this is another snipe-hunt, I'll—"

"The body," Parris interrupted, "has been mutilated. Exactly like the Hereford bull!"

Hoover was open-mouthed, momentarily forgetting the throbbing jaw. "You mean somebody sliced off his ears and his… his gonads?"

"That," Parris said sadly, "is about the size of it." His feet were still cold and he desired nothing more than a long sleep. Sleep without dreams.

The special agent frowned, deep in thought. "Was he married?"

"He was," Parris said. Hoover certainly had a single-track mind.

"Did the victim… fool around?"

Moon sighed. "Only when he was awake."

"It'll be his wife," Hoover said. "Statistics show, sixty-one percent of the time in cases where philandering husbands are offed, it's the old lady that did it."

"I've met her," Parris said with open sarcasm, "she's a born killer."

Hoover eyed these thorns in his side with undisguised hatred. "You two must be all worn out. Maybe you'd like to go home and get some rest."

"Thanks," Moon said cheerfully, "we've sure appreciated spending this quality time with you."

Charlie Moon held the speedometer at sixty; he glanced sideways at his friend. "You okay?"

"Why shouldn't I be?"

Moon's tone was gentle, understanding. "Guess you don't want to talk about it."

"About what?" Parris snapped.

"Pickin' a fight with a guy half your size." He chuckled. "Guess I'd be embarrassed too."

Parris glared at the Ute. "Nobody likes a smart-ass, Charlie." He rolled the Blazer window down. The sky over the reservation was an infinite vault of perfect blackness, sprayed by a random array of blinking diamonds. The moon was still an hour below the horizon, but a coyote, eager for the appearance of the silver orb, yipped hopefully from the crest of a low ridge.

The Ute smiled at his reflection in the windshield. This

matukach
hard case had a fair dose of grit. Moon lifted his foot off the accelerator when he saw the large brick house on a knoll well off the highway. "Nightbird place is up there on the right. You think we should stop and tell Emily, or wait until the Bureau checks his fingerprints?"

Parris considered the house with a mixture of sadness and apprehension. The porch lights were on; the faithful wife was waiting for her husband's return. Not realizing that she was no longer a wife, but a widow. "You have any doubt the corpse is Mr. Nightbird?"

Moon tried to blot out the picture in his mind. "It's him." What was left of him.

"It's your territory, so it's your call, but I'd let her know right away."

"Suits me, pardner. You want to come in?" Emily had taken a shine to this
matukach;
it might make the job easier.

"Sure," Parris said. No cop wanted to break the grim news to a brand new widow without backup.

Moon tapped his knuckles gently on the door, then stepped backward as if to distance himself from the despair to come.

Parris shivered and jammed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "Don't think she heard you."

Moon tapped again, even more lightly.

There was a muffled sound of footsteps. Emily cracked the door and looked up at Charlie Moon; his form towered above her. She pulled the lace collar of her pink satin nightgown close to her throat and glanced at Scott Parris, who removed his hat. Neither man spoke; neither would meet her direct gaze. She knew.

Emily's hand trembled as she unhooked the brass security chain and swung the door wide. The woman started to speak, then covered her mouth with a jerky motion of her delicate fingers. She disappeared down a dark hall, her steps quick and decisive. Moon wiped his boots on the fiber mat, then followed the woman into her kitchen. Parris trailed behind, wishing he was far away. With Anne. What was Anne doing now?

Emily waved her hand nervously at the cushioned Early American chairs under her dining table. The policemen ignored the invitation; they stood awkwardly, trying to decide what to say. How to say it. Emily wheeled on them, frustrated to the edge of fury. "Sit!" she barked, "sit down, both of you."

Obediently, they sat.

She filled an enameled kettle with water and slammed it onto a burner. "It's about Arlo?" It was more a statement than a question.

Moon cleared his throat. "Yes, ma'am…"

"Don't 'ma'am' me, Charlie Moon. Makes me feel like an old woman. Is Arlo… is he…" She paused and put her hand over her mouth.

"Arlo's dead," Moon said flatly, "I'm sorry."

She was silent for some moments, then began to scurry around the kitchen. "I was about to have some tea. I'll make some for you fellows," she said. "Did he have an accident in his fancy car?"

"No," Moon said.

Emily placed three china cups on the ecru linen tablecloth and poured boiling water into the cup by Moon's clenched fist. "Well," she said as if they were exchanging ordinary gossip, "are you going to tell me?"

Parris watched Emily drop a tea bag into his cup. He was surprised to hear himself answering her question. "It was… homicide." Homicide. A fine word. It sounded much less brutal than "murder."

Emily finished her task, then sat down across the table from the policemen. Parris thought the tiny woman looked smaller than ever, as if she was in the process of shrinking. Ninety pounds, eighty pounds… soon there would be nothing but a sigh in the pink satin nightgown. She blinked at Parris. "You were there… you have seen… Arlo?"

He ducked his head, afraid to meet her eyes. "Yes."

"Scott," Moon said gently, "found the body."

She ignored Charlie Moon. "How was my husband killed?"

Parris put his hand over hers. "I'm sorry. I can't say anything about it."

Her eyes widened, her olive skin stretched tight over her skull. "But I'm his wife___" She gripped Parris's hand.

"Emily," Moon said softly, "it's standard procedure in a homicide. We can't reveal anything about how the victim was killed. It could complicate the investigation."

"Do you have anyone to stay with you?" Parris asked gently. Her hand felt cool on his… it was a comfort to him.

"If you need some company," Moon added, "I could ask Nancy Bey ai to come over…"

"No. I'll be all right." She put a trembling hand to her throat. "I'll call Daddy… he'll be here in twenty minutes."

The morning sky over the San Juans was a wild spray of pale pink, the anemic tint of almost ripe watermelon, but the policemen were unaware of this stunning sunrise. Parris braced himself against the dashboard as Moon bounced the squad car over the rutted gravel road. The Ute hadn't spoken since he picked Parris up at the Sky Ute Lodge; the
matu-kach
policeman tried to gulp a swallow of black coffee from a Styrofoam cup, but spilled it on his boots when Moon hit a deep pothole dead-center.

"Better stop and back up so you can try again," Parris said cheerfully. "You missed a bigger hole on the left side of the road. On a scale of ten, would have been worth… maybe eight points."

Moon muttered something that was unintelligible under the roar of the V-8 engine. He jammed his foot on the brake pedal and careened into- the dirt lane that led past Daisy Perika's trailer into the mouth of
Canon del Espiritu
. "I'll feel better when the sun gets high over the mountain," Moon said with a scowl. "Didn't sleep so good last night." He saw a light in the trailer. "Looks like Aunt Daisy's back. I'm gonna have a word with her." Parris understood that he wasn't invited. Moon climbed the porch, slapped his palm on the aluminum wall. Daisy opened the door immediately and Moon disappeared inside. He sat down at the kitchen table while his aunt poured warmed-over coffee into Gorman's bunny cup. "Tell me about Arlo Nightbird."

Daisy folded her arms and spoke through thin lips. "I don't have nothing to tell you about that jackass."

Moon tipped the sugar bowl over his coffee; the crystalline stream of sweetness disappeared into the surface of the dark liquid. "Arlo is dead." He watched her eyes—Daisy showed no sign of surprise. "I already know Arlo came up here to see you. But he never came home that evening. We found his car about a half mile down the gravel road, but his body was up in Spirit Canyon." Charlie Moon was torn; the police officer had a job to do, but the Ute nephew was afraid to hear what his elderly relative might have to say. "What do you figure happened?"

"I got nothing to tell you."
Maybe later
, her eyes said. "Drink your coffee."

"If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine," Moon said slowly, "but there's an FBI man up in the canyon who'll be by here any time to see you."

"He's already come by," the old woman said.

Moon felt his stomach churn. "What'd you tell that… I hope you didn't—"

"I didn't say nothing." Daisy's eyes twinkled. "I opened the door, but I made like I don't understand English. He even tried a few words in Spanish, sounded like '
compren-der Espanol
?' but I just shook my head and blinked at him. I guess he thinks I only speak Ute."

"You," said Moon proudly, "ought to be ashamed of yourself."

When Moon returned to the Blazer, Parris wanted to ask whether the shaman had said anything about Arlo Nightbird, but he didn't.

The Ute cranked the engine to life. "She's not talking," Moon said, "and there's no use pushing her." * * *

Hoover was supervising the transfer of the body into a BIA van when Moon pulled off the dirt lane. The bruise on the special agent's jaw was now a dirty mixture of yellow and purple. Hoover pointedly ignored the presence of the policemen until they were within spitting distance. "So," he muttered to himself, "Tom and Huckleberry have returned." He raised his voice so they could hear. "You two might as well make yourselves useful." He squinted up at Moon, who stood with his back to the sun. "I expect you could tell me something about who Arlo Nightbird was—what he did."

Moon rocked back and forth, his arms folded. He was certain that Hoover had already picked the brains of the Ute cops who stood by watching, but it would be necessary to go through the motions. "Arlo was the richest man on the Rez. Ran an insurance agency, big mover and shaker on the Economic Development Board. Was working with the Feds to turn this nice place," Moon swept his hand to indicate the canyon, "into some kind of nuclear waste dump. Meant big money for the Tribe."

Hoover turned his back on Moon. "What about his wife?"

"Emily," Moon said. "Well educated—couple of degrees from the university up in Boulder. Her Dad is Fidel Sombra; he runs a little farm north of Ignacio."