The Shaman Laughs (33 page)

They kneeled over the pale body, now painted with streams of warm blood that appeared jet black in the harsh, silver moonlight. "Damn," Moon said, "where'd he get the gun!" The Ute was trembling.

"It's mine," Parris admitted.

"He was gonna
shoot
you," Moon said in a stunned whisper, as if the very idea of anyone shooting his pardner was unthinkable.

"I know," Parris said. He put his hand on Moon's shoulder. "Thanks, Charlie."

The Ute policeman shook his head mournfully. He looked at Parris with moist eyes. "I never shot anyone while I've worn this badge."

"You had no choice," Parris said. "You saved my hide, pardner." It was an absolutely necessary lie.

Moon stood up and swallowed hard several times before he could speak. "I'll climb back to the mesa top and radio for some help."

"Sure," Parrifc said blankly, "I'll stay with him." Now he knew the soul loss JoJo Tonompicket had felt. Hollow inside. His spirit was gone.

A heavy cloud slipped over the canyon, but it did not block the pale amber light of the moon that now hovered low in the west. A new storm was rumbling over the San Juans. Moon turned away. "At least, it's all over now." The Ute's words were punctuated with a flash of lightning, then a sharp crack of thunder that echoed off the sandstone cliffs. He disappeared over the kiva wall and was swallowed up by the night.

Parris knew better. It was never over.

Herb Ecker rolled his eyes and coughed. A foam of blood erupted in pulsating gushes from the chest wound where a splintered rib protruded from his flesh. The young man's eyes had lost their glaze. Ecker, now perfectly lucid, whispered. Parris leaned over to listen. "What is it, kid?"

"I am… dying."

"I know." Parris pressed his handkerchief against Ecker's chest in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The warm liquid had a sickening, sweet aroma; the policeman fought an urge to vomit.

Ecker grimaced with pain. He cried out sharply: "I came to dance…" He sucked in a lungful of air that immediately bubbled out his chest wound. "… to dance with"—Ecker gasped for air—"… a shadow… dance… and then there came a shadow, swift and sullen, dark and drear—"

Parris tried to speak. There were no words.

The pitiful youth grasped at the policeman's sleeve, his eyes full of terror. "I am going away to… I do not know… Oh God… do not forget me." Ecker's jaw dropped as a final breath rattled in his punctured lung. His face was a cold mask, his eyes like stones.

Scott Parris wanted, above all else, to flee from this awful place. To hide. And forget. But there was one last task that must be done. The lawman worked the empty revolver free from Herb Ecker's death grasp. He filled the chambers with cartridges from his pocket. As he returned the weapon to Ecker's cold hand, the policeman shivered. But not from the frigid rain that had begun to fall in great sheets. He stared helplessly at the lifeless face. The death of this foolish young man was his responsibility. No. Worse than that. His
fault
. The lawman, on his knees, wept. His tears dropped onto Ecker's chest, mixing with the poet's blood.

The horned figure stood on a sandstone ledge jutting out from Paiute Mesa, across
Canon del Serpiente
from the squat, brooding forms of the Three Sisters. Filled with a consuming hate, the hairy form shook a heavy staff at the dark heavens and mouthed obscene curses that were immediately covered by the cleansing ramble of thunder. For this small Man of the Book, the horned one had made his own plans for a painful death… and ritual mutilation. And, he licked his lips, delectable cannibalism. Now this precious celebration, this sacred ode to the Dark Angel, was an opportunity forever lost. The large Man of the Crescent Moon was to have been next. But he would have to wait… for a time. With renewed hatred, the strange figure glared down-ward into the canyon at the tiny figure of Scott Parris. The policeman was foolishly guarding the pale corpse of the poet as if it had some worth. The Kneeling Man lived. But that could be remedied.

FBI Field Office, Durango

James Hoover searched the glum faces of the lawmen and wondered, What's wrong with this picture? These bum-blers get lucky… they nail the mutilator. Should be ecstatic. Bragging about their success. Rubbing my nose in it. But they act like their favorite hound dog just croaked. These sneaky bastards are hiding something! But what?

He cleared his throat and tapped the glass top of his desk with the blade of Ecker's Buck knife. Forensics hadn't found any blood on the blade. So Ecker's a neat freak. He cleaned the blade. He coughed lightly to get their attention. "You want to know what I think?"

No response.

"My money says Ecker was responsible for Sweetwater's mutilated bull. And," Hoover added firmly, "for the murder and mutilation of Mr. Arlo Nightbird."

Scott Parris allowed himself a bitter smile.

"Ecker," Hoover continued, "was obviously Mr. JoJo Tonompicket's dancing demon." He turned toward the Ute. "We've examined the little bag of junk you found on the kid's belt."

Moon spoke softly, as if to himself. "Must have been Ecker's notion of a medicine bag."

Hoover emptied the contents of the leather bag onto his desk. A small ceramic pipe with a sooty bowl. Dried plant leaves wrapped in tissue paper. A half dozen pink quartzite pebbles, a piece of charcoal. He used the blade of the hunting knife to sort the parts. "Pipe bowl had traces of crack. And there were these… dried weeds. Snake-weed. Golden banner. Both poisonous. I expect he was smoking this stuff along with the cocaine."

"He was pretty high on something when we found him," Parris said.

"Our psychological wizards," Hoover continued, "analyzed his journal. They diagnose Ecker as a multiple personality. By day, he's a mild-mannered peddler of insurance, scribbler of verse, student of anthropology. After the sun goes down, he expresses his dark side. Occult activities. Strange visions. Weird dances. When the feeling moves him, Ecker carries out a peculiar mission: kill and mutilate the odd animal. This experience whets his appetite for a victim higher on the food chain. Finally, he has his opportunity when Mrs. Nightbird phones and tells him that her husband is late getting home. Ecker knows that his boss is on a visit to see Mrs. Perika. He heads for the canyon, catches Night-bird with his pants down. Does the same number on his boss as he did on the bull. Except," Hoover added with a leer, "for adding a slight variation on the theme." Hoover now knew about the testicles that Dr. Simpson had found in Arlo Nightbird's throat. So did every living soul in Ignacio.

"It's a neat theory," Parris said. "But there's no hard evidence to tie this Belgian kid to the mutilation of the Hereford bull, much less to the murder of Arlo Nightbird."

"I wish," Hoover said acidly, "we'd found Mr. Night-bird's ears in Ecker's medicine bag, but things usually don't work out that neatly in the real world of criminal investigation." The special agent spoke slowly, deliberately, as if he was dealing with a slow-witted child. "We've got a kid who howls at the moon, smokes any weed he can get his hands on, wears war paint and feathers, and dances in the woods at midnight. He carries a sharp knife. When he's high, he isn't afraid of anything. Killing and mutilating a bull or," he paused, "cutting up a human being… that gives him big medicine." Hoover carefully replaced the items into Ecker's leather bag. "What happened is Tom and Huckleberry got lucky and stumbled over the killer. So," there was menace in his voice, "don't you guys fight me on this."

Charlie Moon was silent, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Parris understood. If Ecker was guilty of Arlo's mutilation-murder, Gorman Sweetwater was no longer a suspect. Ecker was past caring and Moon didn't want Hoover harassing Gorman. And that was that.

"Off the record," Hoover said to Moon, "I'm glad you blew him away. Saves the government a lot of time and expense." He was pleased to see the Ute's face turn to stone. "Of course it wouldn't have been necessary to shoot the suspect," Hoover said with a pretense of regret, "if Ecker hadn't managed to relieve your sidekick of his revolver…"

Scott Parris opened his mouth, thought better of it, then clamped his jaw shut.

Hoover's jaw ached intermittently. Especially during the small hours when his world was eternally black and empty. And without the comfort of sleep. Scott Parris's heavy fist had left a hairline crack in the bone just below his wisdom tooth. And a deep scar in his psyche. "My written report will reflect the fact," Hoover savored the words, "that Mr. Parris was unable to exercise physical control over the suspect." He stared coldly at his victim. "It takes a young, vigorous man to perform the physical aspects of a lawman's duties." The thorn had been expertly inserted; now it needed a twist. "Maybe you're losing your edge." Then a moment to fester. "But wait—" He slapped a palm on his forehead. "I missed the obvious explanation. You didn't catch Ecker with his arms all tangled up in his coat. Sure. That's it." A

sharp pain pulsated in Hoover's jaw. "You didn't have a chance to throw a sucker punch."

"Well… maybe you're pretty close to the truth"—Par-ris's thoughtful frown furrowed his brow—"guess I have kind of lost my edge." He clasped his hands and studied the worn wool carpet with an embarrassed expression. "But I figure it's because I'm out of practice. It's hard to stay frosty when all you deal with is kids and punks." He glanced up at Hoover. And barely smiled. "Problem is… I haven't had to fight a real man in more'n a year."

They were halfway to Ignacio when Parris muttered, more to himself than to his friend, "One thing I can't figure."

"Just one thing, pardner?" Moon, turned the windshield wipers on.

"I can understand Ecker playing Indian. Chicken feathers in his hair, painting his face, smoking weed in the little pipe. But why'd he want to, want to…'to castrate the bull. And Mr. Nightbird?"

"Who knows?" Moon shook his head in wonder. White people did some of the
damnedest
things. But he wasn't thinking about Herb Ecker. Someone else was out there. Someone with blood on his hands.

Parris rubbed moisture off the dusty glass with his coat sleeve; he looked through the mists. The crimson sun was settling comfortably onto the downy pillow of cumulus that drifted over Cortez like a great feather. This glowing picture, framed in the window of the Blazer, would vanish in a minute. Now, it was warm… soothing. But the autumn snows would not be long in coming. Then, the shrill winds and stinging sleet of December. Deep in the very marrow of his bones, he knew it would be a long, cold winter.

Nancy Beyal's voice crackled over static on the police radio. "Base to car three-thirty-nine. Charlie?"

Moon keyed the mike and held it by his cheek. "What's cookin', Nancy?"

"Had a call from Emily Nightbird. She's at the veterinary hospital; wants Chief Parris to stop by and see her."

* * *

Moon braked to a stop in the gravel driveway that led to the rear entrance of Schaid's Veterinary Clinic. He shut off the ignition and glanced at Parris. "I expect she's heard the rumors about Ecker. Wants to know if he killed her husband."

"Yeah," Parris said. "I expect that's it." He wondered why Nightbird's widow had asked for the out-of-town cop. Probably because he was, if only temporarily, the chief of police. The poor feared authority, but the rich and powerful preferred to deal with someone at the top.

Moon studied his friend's face carefully. "I'll go on to the station then. Call in when you're finished; we'll send someone to pick you up."

Parris got out; he paused before he closed the door. "Sure you don't want to come in?"

"Nope," the Ute said. "I've got some calls to make."

The lobby was empty, except for a tiny silver-haired woman with an orange toy poodle curled up in her lap. Emily sat behind her desk, pecking at an IBM computer keyboard; a new name plate on the desk said MS. sombra. With the memory of a husband like Arlo, it was not surprising that the widow now preferred her maiden name.

Parris removed his hat. "I heard you were back at work."

"I've no time for mourning," Emily said. "We're very busy. Dr. Schaid has been advertising a half-price spay-neuter clinic. We're swamped with customers." Emily stored her file, then smiled sweetly. "But how nice of you to drop by so soon!"

This little woman was uncommonly pretty. So delicate. Parris tried to respond, but stumbled over his words. "We… Ch—Charlie and me," he began, "we… ahhh… got a call that you wanted to see me… uh… somebody from the station."

Emily switched her computer off and got up, pushing a stray wisp of hair over her ear. "I'm so proud of both of you!" She waited with raised eyebrows, but Parris only stared dumbly. "Well, then," she prompted, "don't keep me in suspense."

"You've heard about Herb Ecker…?"

"It's all over Ignacio," she said. "Everybody's saying… Herb…" her voice grew faint, then died.

He looked at his hands. They were chapped from the dry winds and his nails needed clipping; he felt like a small boy reporting to his teacher. "FBI figures it was Ecker who was responsible for your husband's…" But how could you say it?