The Shaman Laughs (39 page)

Her delicate little face was a picture of genuine puzzlement. "Why?"

He tried to think of a reason that would sound credible to this fascinating half-Apache woman. He couldn't. "It's against the law," he said lamely.

Emily Sombra was quiet for a long time before she looked up at the Ute's face. "Charlie, I solemnly promise
never
to do anything like that again." She waited. "You do believe me?"

"Sure I do." Anyway, no more than a fifty-fifty chance. If a future husband trifled with her, murder would be much easier the second time. But Moon didn't want to arrest this woman. There were, after all, good reasons to leave her be. First, Arlo pretty much deserved what he got. Well, almost. Second, Emily was half Indian, even if that half was 'Pache. But something nagged at his conscience: James Hoover had pointed out that the his wife was the killer (in sixty percent of the cases?) where the murdered husband was unfaithful. Moon told himself that the distasteful prospect of proving Hoover right had nothing to do with his decision to forget about Arlo's murder. But there it was.

She inhaled the sweet fragrance of the roses. "You tricked me with that story about my father." There was no hint of accusation, only curiosity.
"You knew I
did it. But how?"

He couldn't tell her that it had begun when Scott Parris had received Nancy Beyal's paperback romance.
Village of Shadows. Aldea del Sombras
. Parris had a hunch that Daisy's vision of the shadow was related to Emily's father's name.
Sombra
. Shadow. But his
matukach
friend, who wanted to pin the murder on Fidel Sombra, had not understood the Ml meaning of Daisy's vision. There was, after all, the owl with blood on its talons. But Parris probably didn't know that Emily had taken up her maiden name after Arlo's death. Somehow, Aunt Daisy had gone to that dark place and seen it all: Shadow that was transformed into Owl and dipped its talons in the warm blood of the
Nuu-ci
. And then became Shadow again. The Sombra woman had married Arlo and become a Nightbird. Then, she had dipped her hands in the blood of the People. She was now, once again, a Sombra. A Shadow. He wondered whether his aunt had made the connection between her strange vision and Emily Sombra-Nightbird-Sombra.

"It wasn't really my fault," she whispered almost to herself, "it was all asilly mistake."

Moon raised an eyebrow. "Mistake?"

"Certainly. I called Dr. Anderson, reported what the public health nurse had told me about my blood donation. He came over, just before you and Scott… Mr. Parris arrived, and took another blood sample."

So that, Moon realized, had been what Scott Parris had seen when he thought Emily was getting an injection. "You said he'd given you a shot, to calm your nerves."

"Well," she said flatly, "I was nervous when you arrived early and saw the doctor in my home. I lied."

Nervous—that was almost funny. The woman had nerves of steel. Cold, hardened steel. Moon noticed the roses in her hand; they were wilting.

"Anyway," she added quickly, "the second test, performed at a laboratory in Kansas City, showed no evidence of the AIDS virus. Just to be sure, Dr. Anderson drew blood for another test, sent it to Atlanta, to the Centers for Disease Control. That one was negative too." She raised her eyebrows hopefully, like a small child explaining a report card to a parent. "So, I have a clean bill of health. The government scientists in Atlanta said the first test result was a 'statistical fluctuation.' A silly mistake. Arlo didn't give me a disease after all. I feel so
silly
." She paused and wiped at her eyes. Still no tears. "I hope you'll keep all this to yourself, Charlie. I'd be eternally grateful."

"What you've told me is between us. I don't plan to take any official action. Not unless some new evidence on Arlo's death turns up." Fat chance. Of course there was always the missing pig with the bejeweled ear…

"OlTho," she said with a wave of her tiny hand, "I didn't mean about how Arlo died. I know you won't mention what I told you about his death." She had his word. "What I meant is, I wouldn't want anyone to know that I ever tested positive for the AIDS virus! You know how tongues will wag."

The Ute shook his head in amazement. Emily was half 'Pache, on the female side of her family. The 'Pache women had their own special rules to live by. For giving birth and for burying. For cooking and bathing. And for dealing with faithless husbands. "You," he said, "are some kind of woman." He meant every word.

"Well, thank you, Charlie. But I do sense that you are… disappointed in me."

"Well, I don't exactly buy that story about why you shoved his—"

"Well, Charles, that's because you're a man and you don't realize how a woman reacts under such terrible stress. I was very, very upset with Arlo," she said sternly. "It isn't fair for you to judge me so harshly." She stuffed the handkerchief into her purse and snapped it shut. "You really don't understand how awful it was for me. You had to be there."

Moon's back stiffened as if he had taken a stiff jolt of electricity. "What?"

"I was just saying that…" Her voice trailed off as she puzzled over the peculiar expression on his face. Such a strange, fascinating man.

The policeman stared at the woman without really seeing her. That was it. It was like she said. You had to be there!

She pouted prettily. "Will you remain cross with me forever?"

Moon barely heard her. Now he knew for certain who had killed and mutilated Big Ouray. But there was not enough evidence for an arrest. And that killer of animals might turn out to be very dangerous. Even more dangerous than this fascinating woman.

"Charlie Moon!" She stamped her delicate little foot. "You are not listening to a word I'm saying." She moved close to him, so that her skirt brushed against his knee. "You know… it's awfully lonely in that big house after the sun goes down." She touched his sleeve, then smiled shyly. "Why don't you drop in this evening… around dinner time."

Moon had no appetite. "Thanks. I don't feel much like having dinner."

"I was thinking about something," she said, "more along the lines of…
dessert
."

Nancy Beyal pushed a flashing button on her telephone console. "Southern Ute Police." The dispatcher listened to the excited caller, who demanded to speak to "Charles" Moon. "No, Mr. Oakes. Charlie's on vacation." She scribbled a few words on her yellow pad as she listened to his questions. "For a week. Maybe two." Nancy nodded as if the caller could see her. "Charlie said he was going to borrow a dog, maybe go hunting." She listened again, with characteristic patience. Oakes was excited, claimed he was "on to something."

"Okay. I'll write it down. Maybe he'll call in for his messages." She paused to hear another urgent question. "No, Scott Parris isn't here anymore… but I can give you his Granite Creek number." This seemed to satisfy the agitated man.

Scott Parris used his pocket knife to cut the masking tape on the parcel from Charlie Moon. It felt like a book. He unwrapped the heavy brown paper. It was a photocopy of Herb Ecker's journal. A note from Moon was attached:

GREETINGS TO MY FRIEND KNEW YOU WOULD WANT TO SEE THIS.

—Charlie

Parris4eafed through the stapled pages. The entries were in a meticulous hand that was easy to read. There were bits of verse, lines about the inevitability of death and decay. It ranged from the dreary to the bizarre. Except when Ecker penned romantic lines about a young woman. Benita. Embarrassed at this violation of the dead man's privacy, he skipped over these sentimental sections quickly. There were detailed accounts of the young man's expenses. Rent. Groceries. A new battery for his motorcycle, an assortment of books. And notes. Pages of notes. Some of the entries bordered on the mystic.

Interesting event approx. 12 km S.E. of Dulce. Apache's quarter horse killed and mutilated. Tongue, tail, genitals removed. But this is not the work of the Horned Beast.

There was an entry on the day after the Sweetwater bull's death had been reported to the Nightbird Insurance Agency.

Benita's father reports Big Ouray dead. Dr. Schaid says mutilation is work of coyotes. The veterinarian conceals the truth. H. B. strikes again! Benita, sweet princess, stopped to talk with me.

A few days later, Ecker had written:

Of all the inhabitants of Ignacio, only I understand the mystery of the Horned Beast! Perfect Knowledge is Perfect Power!

Parris flipped through the pages, past more strange verse, more listings of grocery bills and rent paid. Ecker's hand had been slightly shaky when he recorded the fact of Arlo Nightbird's death.

Mr. Nightbird is dead. It was to be expected. He had offended the Gods!

Then, there was the final entry:

JoJo Tonompicket arrested for poaching—says he saw 'Dancing Devil' in Snake Canyon. Police believe this man is crazy. No! J. J. has seen the Horned Beast. Tonight I use the vision-medicine. I will dance the old dance, sing the old song. I will see into the dark corners.

What did this all mean? Were the FBI shrinks right? Had Ecker's brain expressed two personalities, the poet by day, the Horned Beast by night? Or… was something else out there? It was a particularly unpleasant thought. Ecker had certainly not killed Arlo Nightbird. But Ecker had gone to Snake Canyon to dance. Was he a solitary dancer, or did he intend to dance with… with what? And he was dead. Dead because he went to dance. No. Tell the truth! Dead because a careless policeman had lost an unloaded gun in a scuffle. Because Charlie Moon, that gentle man, had his limits. Moon would kill to protect his friend.

The telephone jangled. The policeman pressed the receiver to his ear. "Parris here," he barked.

"This is Oswald Oakes." The voice quavered with ill-concealed excitement. "I called the Southern Ute Police; Miss Beyal told me you had returned to Granite Creek. She gave me your home telephone number."

It took Parris a long moment to connect the name with a person. This was the guy Moon called "Oz." The eccentric antiquarian. The gambler with the Indian artifact collection and the computer files on animal mutilations. "I'll remember to thank Nancy for that," he muttered. "What's on your mind?"

"There has been another bull mutilation. On a ranch in Gunnison County, just south of Powderhorn. Precisely the same as the Sweetwater animal. Ears and testicles were removed."

Parris felt a sick sensation grip the pit of his abdomen. He silently cursed his decision to accept the stint with the Ute police.

Oswald nervously drummed his fingers on the marble top of an antique table as he waited for a reply. "There are some very intriguing aspects to this particular mutilation; I was certain you would want to… to see for yourself. You could meet me at the kill site." He waited. Did this dull policeman have not the least interest in identifying the mutilator? "I will be leaving within the hour."

Parris hesitated. "I don't know… it's only a couple of hours before sundown and—"

"Suit yourself," Oswald interrupted crisply, "but this mutilation could be a breakthrough. There is unusual evidence that may lead to the identity of the mutilator."

"Well… I'd like to see what you've found. But it's a long way from my jurisdiction and I'm pretty busy these days." Promises to keep. "Doesn't Charlie Moon want to have a look?"

"The redoubtable Sergeant Moon is not at his post. Your aboriginal colleague has left on vacation." Oakes's tone betrayed his annoyance.

"Okay," Parris sighed. "Tell me where to meet you."

It was back.

Louise Marie LaForte stood among a forlorn patch of frostbitten tomato plants; her tiny hands trembled. She closed one eye and squinted down the long, rusty barrel of the antique revolver. Her wrists ached. She would decide to fire, then the weight of the pistol would inexorably lower the barrel and spoil her aim. The small woman strained to raise the sight well above her target, then waited for gravity to do its work. When she pulled the trigger, the booming report was so loud and the recoil so unexpected that she shrieked and dropped the weapon. The pig also squealed; it took a few halting steps, then crumpled to the ground in her vegetable garden. She leaned forward, her hands braced on arthritic knees. Yes, this was the very same swine that she had reported to Charlie Moon. The turquoise stud glistened in the pig's ear. Her chin trembled as she glared at the swine. "Damn you, Arlo Nightbird."

Louise Marie straightened her back with a grunt, and scratched at her wrinkled neck.
Oui
, it was a difficult problem, this. A good citizen should report such a matter to the police. Then, they could take the pig's carcass and dispose of it properly. Dismember it. Burn it! But what if they merely buried the creature… Arlo's evil spirit might slip away from the swine's body… He might come back to haunt her again… in another, even more dreadful form? Her lurid imagination was well equipped to give dramatic dimension to her fears. Louise Marie pictured a long striped snake, big around as a lard bucket. The serpent would crawl under her house at night… slither through a hole in her bedroom floor. Slip under the covers while she slept… and then? Never! Louise Marie realized the need to act decisively and destroy the pig's corpse so that not a trace remained. There was a particularly tempting solution. And the turquoise ear stud would make a delightful addition to her box of pretties.

"But, no, I must not," she whispered with an entirely satisfying rush of self-pity, "even though I'm a poor old woman, with nothing but a little pension to live on." The vision of fresh strips of bacon, tender slices of rose-colored ham—she could taste the crimson grease… pork chops slow-broiled in the oven. It made her little mouth water. But it was almost like—she hesitated to admit it to herself—cannibalism! Her conscience argued against this solution.

Hunger won the argument.