The Shaman Laughs (22 page)

"The victim have any children?"

"No children." At least not by his wife.

"Enemies?"

"Well," Moon said slowly, "when they have his funeral, there'll be no trouble finding a place to park."

"Let's narrow it down a bit," Hoover said. "Was there anyone who'd kill him?"

Moon glanced wryly toward the plastic body bag in the BIA van. "Evidently."

The special agent glowered at the Ute policeman. "We haven't found his trousers, but we found his belt. There was a sheath for a knife. Must have had a five and a half or six-inch blade. We didn't find the knife."

"Maybe," Parris offered, "the guy who did him in took it with him."

"That would make the killer pretty stupid," Hoover said hopefully.

"Could be," Moon said thoughtfully. "Or maybe this one isn't much worried about getting caught." Maybe he should tell Hoover about Oswald Oakes's theory about Cain. Oswald would love to have a visit from the FBI, and an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge about animal mutilations. But that could wait.

Hoover flipped the pages of his notebook. "I understand that one Mr. Gorman Sweetwater recently had a heated dispute with the victim." The special agent had made the comment casually. Too casually. Somebody was doing a lot of talking to this fed. Moon glanced at Sally Rainwater, who was leaning against the side of the BIA van, then at Daniel Bignight. "Local gossip, that's all." Moon said.

"From what I hear, this Sweetwater guy was all pissed off about an insurance scam that Nightbird wouldn't buy. Sweetwater reported that an insured bull had died of natural causes, wanted a quick insurance settlement." A cold smile twisted Hoover's mouth. "You remember the bull? Name was Big Ouray."

Moon's fingers were toying with the .357 magnum cartridges on his belt.

"Problem is," Hoover was getting up to speed, "the bull had been mutilated by unnatural means, so a natural death wasn't a legitimate claim. There were also some technicalities about how the insured animals were identified; the policy may not have covered the bull in question. When Mr. Nightbird refused to recommend payment on the bogus claim, this Sweetwater fellow, who probably killed his own bull to collect the insurance, threatens to castrate him! Now, Mr. Nightbird turns up extremely deceased in the same canyon where the bull was found, and Mr. Nightbird is also minus his family jewels and his ears, precisely like Sweet-water's bull. Ear for an ear, ball for a ball." Hoover paused to gloat. "Now, Officer Moon, would you say that Gorman Sweetwater was a prime suspect?"

Moon stared down at Hoover. He stared until Hoover blinked. "Well," the Ute policeman replied thoughtfully, "since you put it like that—no. Even if Gorman killed his bull for the insurance, it doesn't make any sense for him to mutilate the animal—that would only queer his insurance claim. Not only that, half the people in Ignacio hated Ario more than Gorman did. And the whole town knew about that castration threat Gorman made against Ario."

Hoover turned away and dismissed Moon with a wave. "Never mind. I shouldn't expect you to see what is so damned obvious. But"—looking doubtfully over his shoulder—"maybe you'll still be of some use. There's a weird old broad who lives near the canyon entrance___"

"That weird old
lady
," Moon said softly, "is my aunt Daisy."

"Figures," Hoover said, "I guess everyone around here is related to everyone else, like in the Ozarks." Hoover wanted to say that this could explain a lot, but his throbbing jaw was a painful reminder that a man must measure his words. "Since she doesn't speak English, I'll need a translator." He looked innocently at Moon. "I assume you speak a word or two of Ute."

"Sure as you're a
waa-pi
, G-man," an unseen Ute policeman muttered. Moon gave no sign that he had heard this insult. Daniel Bignight, who had picked up a few Ute words, turned his back. His frame shook with suppressed laughter.

Hoover flushed; he opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He had barely heard the remark and didn't dare ask for an explanation. He was certain that someone would provide one. He retreated toward the van and instructed the BIA driver to take the body away.

Parris was watching Hoover when he spoke softly to Moon. "What's this nonsense about your aunt only speaking Ute? She speaks better English than half of my relatives."

Charlie Moon grinned, but didn't reply.

"I'm beginning to wonder," Parris said, "whether this job's worth the pay."

Moon thought carefully about this. "The benefits," he observed thoughtfully, "are mostly spiritual."

Daisy opened the door while Hoover was knocking. She smiled and gestured that he should enter. He was followed by Moon and then by Parris, who nodded politely. The old woman was silent as she poured three cups of strong coffee and ladled out steaming posole into plastic bowls. She gestured again to indicate that the lawmen should sit at her kitchen table, then placed the coffee and posole in front of them. She muttered something in the Ute dialect to Charlie Moon, then sat down and folded her arms in Buddha-like serenity.

Hoover tasted his coffee, grimaced at the brackish flavor, then leaned forward and smiled at Daisy. He spoke loudly, as if volume would help the communication. "I," he pointed at his chest, "represent the government in Washington. I am here to help the Ute."

Parris turned his head and coughed to stifle a snicker.

Charlie Moon spoke in Ute to his aunt: "
This guy is manure in your path, so don't step on him
."

Daisy nodded placidly, but didn't reply.

Hoover clasped his hands prayerfully. "When Mr. Night-bird came to the canyon—can you tell us anything about what happened?"

Moon began his translation, which was another pointed warning to his aunt.

Daisy interrupted and nodded vigorously. "Ah… Night-bird." She continued her comments in Ute.

Moon interpreted. "She says Arlo stopped by late in the afternoon, in his fancy car. Talked to her about the waste project for the canyon, then he left."

Hoover scowled at Moon. "That's all?"

Moon nodded. "That's all. He came, he left."

"Ask her if his car was damaged when he showed up."

Daisy listened to the query from Moon, then shook her head.

"Ask her—did she see anyone else, before or after he left?"

Moon muttered a few Ute syllables. Daisy answered; her monologue lasted almost three full minutes.

Hoover was leaning forward expectantly. "What did she say?"

"She said she don't remember too well."

"Shit, man, she gabbed that Indian pig latin for five minutes, she must have told you more than that!"

"She's kind of old and her memory's going," Moon explained apologetically. "It takes a lot of time for her to try to remember what happened on a particular day."

"Good grief," Hoover groaned, "why don't these old biddies learn to speak enough English for simple communications with the civilized world?" Unaware of the slight scowl on Daisy's face, the special agent stirred a spoonful of the posole and inspected the greasy brew with a worried expression. "This looks like hominy. I don't care much for hominy. Gives me gas. And what's this stuff floating around in this muck?" He scowled and muttered, "Hmfff. Probably dog meat."

"Dammit," Parris snapped, "watch your mouth!"

Hoover regarded Parris coldly. "What the hell for? The old woman doesn't understand English." He turned to the Ute policeman with a pained expression. "But if I've offended Officer Moon's delicate ethnic sensibilities, please accept my abject apologies." He affected a slight bow toward Moon.

The Ute policeman grinned. "Oh, no need to apologize. My aunt's getting kind of old and simple-minded." Daisy remained poker-faced. "No telling what kind of meat she put in the pot." The Ute sniffed at his bowl. "Might be
prairie
dog. No," he sniffed, then tasted a morsel, "don't think so, tastes kind of whangy, more like… ummm… porcupine." He winced as Daisy kicked his shin under the table.

Moon and Parris were finishing their posole when Hoover pointed at the door and shouted at Daisy. "Good-bye." He saluted her in military fashion. "The president in Washington thanks you!" Hoover paused by the door when he noticed a copy of the
Southern Ute Drum
on a small chest of drawers. Daisy Perika's name was on the newspaper mailing label. "What's this doing here… if she doesn't understand English?"

"It's the pictures," Moon said, "she likes to see pictures of her friends."

Hoover grunted; he frowned suspiciously at the silent woman before he left the trailer home.

Daisy watched Hoover hurry back to his Jeep; she punched Moon in the ribs. "Old and simple-minded, am I?"

"Sorry, Auntie. Just old, I guess."

Parris cleared his throat. "Mrs. Perika… I guess we'll be going. Unless there's anything you want to tell us." He was certain that this old woman knew something about Nightbird's murder. Maybe she even knew who had drawn the blade across… but the image was an obscenity.

The shaman's eyes went flat; the seconds ticked away while Moon waited patiently. It seemed as if Daisy might remain mute, but she turned to Scott Parris. "Most of the
matukach
think our old ways are foolishness. Some of my own people," she glanced accusingly at Charlie Moon, "say the
pitukupf
is just an old campfire story to frighten naughty children. But you"—she pointed at Parris's chest—"… you know different."

She was, he knew, referring to his last trip to the reservation. Parris looked at the cracked linoleum on the floor and fidgeted. He had not actually
seen
the dwarf. Except in his dreams, where the
pitukupf
, who smoked a clay pipe, had the appearance of a wrinkled Irish leprechaun. Absurdity stacked upon absurdity.

"There's something you two need to know," she said. "I've seen it with my own eyes." She paused, closing her eyes to better recall the vision. "There was this big dark thing, like a black shadow. The shadow… it became a big bird with sharp claws, kind of like an owl." She imitated claws with her wrinkled hands, and slashed at a startled Par-ris, who leaned backward. "It killed somebody behind a bush. There was blood on its feet."

Parris couldn't take his eyes off her imitation claws. "Blood? On its feet?"

"Sure," she said, holding her hands forward with thin fingers curved under her palms. "On its claws. Blood, dripping off onto the moss. I think it killed one of the
Nuuci
."

Parris felt the hint of a headache surge under his temples. "The owl killed a… um… nooch?" Maybe a
nooch
was some kind of animal.

"
Nuuci
, one of the People," Moon said. "A Ute."

Daisy nodded. "I'm sure now, it killed Arlo Nightbird. And that's not all."

"There's more?" Why were these predictions always reported
after
the event? Parris glanced at Moon, whose face did not betray his thoughts.

"Sure," the shaman said, "that big owl, it changed back into a dark mist. Like a shadow." She waited for Parris to respond, but the policeman was at a loss for words. Daisy patted Parris's arm affectionately. "You and Charlie, maybe you'll figure out what it means."

Parris nodded politely. He wasn't good at puzzles.

Moon leaned on the aluminum door frame and looked at the sliver of moon, suspended like a silver earring from the largest of the Three Sisters. The policeman part of his mind suggested that maybe this was Aunt Daisy's way of telling them what she had seen in the canyon when Arlo was murdered. The Ute part said maybe not.

Scott Parris sat across the table from Charlie Moon; he watched the Ute policeman fork a massive chunk of Angel's homemade banana cream pie into his mouth, then wash this down with a gulp of scalding black coffee. Moon had already consumed half a fried chicken. Parris was both fascinated and somewhat envious; half of Moon's diet would have made his trousers shrink at the belt line. The big Ute showed no sign of a bulge around the waist. Angel brought fresh coffee and grinned at Moon; the Ute with the prodigious appetite was far and away his favorite customer. "How 'bout another piece of pie, Charlie? Banana's all gone, but we got some blueberry and pecan."

"No, thanks," Moon said between swallows, "I'm not so hungry today."

Parris was trying to think of an appropriate barb when he saw a Jeep Wagoneer skid to a halt outside the plate-glass window; James Hoover swung the Jeep door open and banged Moon's tribal police Blazer. Moon didn't look up when the special agent came through the swinging doors. Hoover's pale face was flushed; the bruise on his jaw was now covered with an inexpert smear of beige makeup. He sat down and leaned his elbows on the table, unconsciously imitating the relaxed posture of Charlie Moon. "I interviewed the Nightbird widow. She wasn't a lot of help." He checked his watch. "You guys get through feeding your faces, we got some police work to do."

The Ute wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. "Can't speak for my pardner, but I love police work."

Hoover flipped through the pages of his notebook. "First, I need to interview Mr. Herbert Ecker. Arlo Nightbird's employee." He put the notebook into his pocket and drummed his fingers on the table while the men finished their meals with what seemed to be deliberate slowness. He checked the face of his wristwatch a dozen times, cleared his throat a half dozen. Finally, it was too much. He sprang to his feet. "You can catch up with me at the Nightbird Insurance Agency." Then he was gone.