The Shaman Laughs (43 page)

The old woman's tone, as she spoke to Parris, was almost apologetic. "I don't think you or Charlie can keep any of this from happening, but I thought I should tell you."

Parris frowned and put his hand over hers. "Do you know who will die?"

She enjoyed the warmth of his hand. "No. I could not see their faces."

Faces. This made it real… Parris felt his skin prickle. "Where will this happen… when?"

Daisy Perika leaned close to the
matukach
. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder, like a hitchhiker. "It'll start up there, to the north… where the wind always blows cold." The shaman closed her eyes tightly. "And it won't be long in coming."

Angel's Cafe

A gusty September wind flung a mixture of chalk-dry dust and yellowed cottonwood leaves against the steamy window of the restaurant. Charlie Moon watched the dead leaves and was reminded of the approach of winter. It was time to haul firewood from the mountains. A cord of pinon would be just the thing.

Scott Parris watched a thin blonde waitress pour decaf coffee into his cup. He glanced across the table at the big Ute policeman. "What d'you think?"

Moon, having already put away his pot roast and boiled potatoes, had skewered a quarter of an apple pie with his fork and was sawing at it with one of Angel's dull knives. "Don't know what to think." He kept his eye on the pie. "You know how Aunt Daisy is. She gets these funny notions sometimes, and won't let me alone." He put a forkful into his mouth. "Mmmm," he said.

Troubles might come, Parris noted enviously, but Charlie Moon rarely lost his appetite. Or gained a pound. Damned annoying, that's what it was.

Moon sawed at another megabite of pie. The Ute knew his
matukach
friend took Aunt Daisy's visions very seriously. They were much alike, this white man and the old woman. "Sorry 1 brought you all the way down here for something like this."

"No problem," Parris said. "It's a relief to get away from the station for a few hours." He took a sip of the decaffeinated coffee, then added "non-dairy coffee whitener" from a plastic dispenser and artificial sweetener from an inch-square paper envelope.

Moon swallowed the last bite of pie, a half cup of heavily sugared coffee, then looked over his cup at Scott Parris. "I recall you're going to the Baja next week."

"Yeah. Deep sea fishing." Two wonderful weeks. "And you should be going with me."

"I'd like that," the Ute said wistfully. "But I'm down to a couple of days vacation." Moon, who was sinking all his salary into his never-ending home construction effort, couldn't afford the price of the airline fare. If Scott knew this, he would have bought the tickets himself. Even if he had to borrow the money. And claim they were bonus miles that hadn't cost him a dime. That just wouldn't do. If he could beat his friend out of the money in a few hands of poker… well, that was another thing altogether.

"Well, I'll miss you," Parris said. Too bad Moon didn't save up his vacation.

The Ute waved at Angel, who brought another slab of pie and the coffee pot. "You oughta take Sweet Thing along."

"Thing's pretty busy with her work. And," Parris smiled faintly, "Anne says she doesn't care much for the odor of fish."

Though he'd never met a pie he didn't like, the Ute inspected his new offering and found it satisfactory. "She must've been joking."

"Don't think so. She said that fish stink. And they're slimy." Women were strange and mysterious creatures.

"You oughta ask that pretty woman to marry you. Then you could honeymoon down in Baja—she might turn into a fisherman herself."

"I don't know…" Parris began. On the couple of occasions he'd even hinted at marriage, Anne had gotten nervous. Changed the subject.

Scott Parris stared longingly at the Ute's pie and wondered whether Angel stocked any low-fat desserts. With artificial sweetener. Fat chance.

When he was barely west of Pagosa Springs, Scott Parris pulled off Route 160 at a plush golf resort. He found a public telephone under a tall spruce. Parris stood in the enclosure and stared at the instrument. And listened to the muttering voices of his conflicting thoughts. Finally, the chief of police picked up the telephone. He hesitated, grunted and placed it back on the chrome hanger.

He closed his eyes and pictured the triangular sail of the fishing boat, the salt breeze, fresh fish roasting over an open camp fire. It was a fuzzy picture… slipping away.

Parris grabbed the telephone receiver again, knowing what he must do. His stomach churned. He pressed 'O', waited for the operator, and gave her the number in Granite Creek. He listened, then jammed an assortment of coins in the slot.

A woman's voice answered on the second ring. "Worldwide Travel."

"Hi." He identified himself. "About my airline tickets for Baja California… yeah, Santa Rosalia… and the hotel reservation…" He paused, remembering the shimmering blue-green waters. Black fins cutting the surface, the nylon line slicing the water. The solitude, and incomparable peace. But it was not like he had a choice. Not really. Not a year earlier, he'd learned the hard way—a warning from Daisy Perika was not to be taken lightly.

The travel agent was tapping impatiently on her telephone receiver with a long plastic fingernail. Tic. tic. tic. "Are you there, Mr. Parris?"

He closed his eyes and was almost surprised when he heard his voice. "The whole trip. Cancel everything."

Now he heard the measured sound of tap-tapping on her computer keyboard.

"Hotel's no problem, Mr. Parris. But you'll lose about three-hundred-and-twenty-some dollars on the plane tickets," she reminded him. "Those were a special purchase."

"Oh shoot," he muttered. Childishly, he kicked at the telephone booth, cracking the thin fiberglass sheet.

The travel agent was startled. "What was that noise?"

"What noise?" His big toe throbbed.

"You sure you want to cancel those tickets?"

"Do it." He gritted his teeth.

"Consider it done." The travel agent sighed. "Too bad. Something come up?"

"Yeah," he said into the mouthpiece. "Something came up."

Scott Parris hung up the phone and limped off toward the parking lot. He stopped by the old Volvo, shaded his eyes with one hand, and squinted toward the western horizon. The pale sun sinking into the blue mists had the warm patina of a polished disc of bone. Heavy clouds drifted in from the northwest; the smell of rain was a sweet perfume. The air was comfortably warm, almost balmy.

He shivered.