The Witch's Tongue (20 page)

Bignight wondered,
Evidence of what?

Moon glanced into the bedroom, noted Wolfe’s neatly made bed.

Whitehorse followed the tribal investigator’s gaze. “He didn’t sleep here last night. I imagine he was sitting up late, waiting for somebody to come pick him up.”
And I’d give two weeks’ pay to know who
.

The evidence suggested that Wolfe had left in the middle of the night with nothing but his pistol and what he wore on his back. Moon waited for the chief of police to reach the inevitable decision.

Wallace Whitehorse’s leathery face had drooped several notches below its customary gloomy expression. The Northern Cheyenne mumbled a curse in his native language, switched back to English. “I’ll have to notify the FBI.”

Moon watched a bemused Bignight bag and tag the stolen cornbread mix. “Is Stan Newman still the Man in the Durango office?”

“Yeah,” Whitehorse said. “And Stan’s got a new partner.” The SUPD chief of police pressed a button on his cell phone to dial the programmed number. He exchanged the customary pleasantries with his FBI contact, then proceeded to explain the reason for his call. Wallace Whitehorse’s mumbled narrative was punctuated by brief silences that Charlie Moon knew from long experience were pointed questions from Special Agent Stanley Newman. Finally, Whitehorse said three words: “He’s right here.” He seemed relieved to pass the telephone to the tribal investigator.

Moon held the small instrument to his ear. “Hi, Stan.”

Newman got right to the point. “Wallace tells me he’s got a possible rogue cop who left town last night with person or persons unknown. And what’s all this nonsense about stolen corpse powder and empty graves?”

Moon smiled into the mouthpiece. “We reservation cops aren’t smart enough to figure it out. That’s why we’re happy to call on the services of our nation’s top law-enforcement agency. We need you to come give us a hand.”

There was a braying laugh from Stanley Newman. “Maybe there really was a body in that grave, Charlie. I bet you just didn’t dig deep enough.”

“I would not even think about doing any digging at the scene of a potential crime where the FBI would have ultimate jurisdiction.”

“Okay, smart guy—here’s the drill. You and Wallace saddle up and head to the spot where the grave is. Me’n my partner will fly out in the Blackbird.”

“Stan, I don’t think you’ll find anything, but if you really want to—”

“If there ever was a body, maybe we can find some something for a DNA ID. Hair. Blood. Saliva. Flakes of epidermis.” His tone turned caustically sarcastic. “That’s what we
do
, Charlie.”

The tribal investigator was forced to admit that Newman was right. Technically. If there had ever been a body under the pile of stones.

“I am gratified that you see it my way, Chucky. So tell me where we’re going.”

Charlie Moon told him. “When we spot the copter, we’ll use a cell phone to talk you in.”

“You do that.” Newman hung up.

Moon returned the telephone to Whitehorse. “Stan is determined to check out that pile of rocks where Wolfe went to sprinkle some corpse powder.”

The chief of police nodded. “The one where there ain’t no corpse.”

“The very same.”

“Charlie, I don’t like the feel of this.”

Corpse powder?
Danny Bignight cleared his throat. “Excuse me.” He pointed at the evidence bag. “Is this really…you know…what you just said?”

Moon and Whitehorse nodded in perfect synchrony.

The Taos Pueblo Indian stared at the doubled-bagged sample of cornbread mix with an expression of utter horror.
Oh God—I hope I didn’t get any on me
. Bignight hurried to Wolfe’s kitchen sink, washed his hands.

A massive black thunderhead had boiled up in the west, casting chill winds and a threatening shadow across the reservation canyon lands.

Officer Danny Bignight sat behind the wheel of the four-wheel-drive Blazer. Like his boss, the Taos Pueblo man had a bad feeling about this outing.

A few yards away, Charlie Moon and Wallace Whitehorse held on to their hats with both hands as the FBI pilot expertly lowered the small helicopter onto a clearing near a defunct gas well.

ON THE
aircraft, Stan Newman leaned to yell in his new partner’s ear, “See that tall guy with Wallace Whitehorse?”

She nodded, shouted back, “Is that the man I’ve heard so much about?”

After the engine was shut off, the props slowed to a lazy
whoosh-whoosh
, finally stopped with a metallic clunk. Long black petals drooped as the mechanical flower wilted under the sunless sky.

Newman lowered his voice to accommodate the welcome silence. “Yeah. That’s Charlie Moon.”

A faint smile touched her lips. “Is Mr. Moon half of what he’s cracked up to be?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of that. But I can tell you this—Charlie knows more about the res than all the rest of the Ute cops put together. And he’s a lot smarter than he looks.”

He looks smart enough to me
. “He must be a useful resource for the Bureau.”

“He could be if he wanted to,” Newman said. “But none of us have ever gotten much from ol’ Charlie—he holds his cards pretty close to the vest.” He watched his ambitious partner’s face, knew she was eager to stake out her claim and mine it.

CHARLIE MOON
watched Special Agent Stanley Newman emerge from the helicopter hatch, the breeze whipping at what little hair he had left. Stan was muscular, round shouldered, pushing sixty, and had a round spot shining on the top of his skull. Newman was followed by a creature of another sort entirely. Moon raised an eyebrow. The woman in the dark blue jumpsuit was tall, slim, moved with the lithe, catlike confidence of one who has never slipped on the ice or stubbed her toe on a stone. Her black hair was done in a single braid, her face was oval, her eyes large. The Ute leaned close to Wallace Whitehorse. “That’s Stan’s new partner?”

The chief of Southern Ute police muttered something that Moon took to be an affirmation, hurried off to greet the mismatched pair of feds. Wallace Whitehorse shook hands with Newman, who immediately made a path toward Moon. Whitehorse hung behind to exchange a few words with the strikingly handsome woman.

Newman seemed to be in excellent spirits. “Hey, Charlie—what’s going on, you Indians can’t even keep track of your cops now?”

Ignoring the customary bluntness of the white man’s hello-now-let’s-get-down-to-business greeting, Moon pumped Newman’s knobby hand. “Good afternoon, Stan.”

“Good afternoon yourself.” The FBI agent nodded to indicate the stunning woman. “How d’you like my new sidekick?”

“Until I get to know her a little better, I must decline to comment.”

“Don’t give me that malarkey.”

Moon felt his mouth grin. “Okay. She is not hard to look at.”

The fed snickered. “Don’t get your hormones all heated up, Charlie. Special Agent McTeague is miles outta your league. And my new partner is very particular about who she associates with.”

“This is too easy—but I feel obligated to point out that she is hanging around with the likes of you.”

“On that matter, McTeague had no choice.” Newman curled his lips into a nasty smile. “It was an assignment, and she is a pro—so she gritted her perfect teeth and got on with the job.”

Her teeth are nice
. “I see what you mean.”

“Then we’re making some progress.”

“But just for the record, I merely remarked that she was easy on the eyes.” Moon looked down his nose at the fed. “It’s not like I had intended to ask her to share a strawberry milk shake.”

“Well, if you did, chump—she’d laugh right in your homely face.”

“She is that downright mean?”

“Mean? Why, that don’t half describe McTeague. The woman is cold as a snowball and hard as an anvil. And she’s smart, too. Which is another reason why she’d never waste a minute on a stumblebum like you.”

Sensing that there might be an opportunity lurking here, Moon played along. “You think this federal cop would find me repulsive?”

“Your words, not mine. But since you put it that way, odds are ninety-nine to zero that she will gag when she gets within three yards of you. If she ever gets that close.”

He walks right into it every time
. “Pardon me, Stan—but that sounds distinctly like a challenge.”

“You want to make a bet?” Newman shook his balding head and chuckled. “No, not even Charlie Bet-His-Whole-Wad Moon would be so lame-brained as to—”

“Name it.”

The fed assumed a thoughtful expression. “A wager must be well defined.”

“Define it.”

The FBI agent thought about it. “Within a specified time from right now, you and her have to go out on a date.”

It was Moon’s turn to look doubtful. “A
date
?”

Newman smirked his most irksome smirk, knowing this would undo the Ute. “The real thing. With flowers.”

“Okay.” Flowers were no problem. “And I like the ninety-nine-to-zero odds.”

“That was merely a figure of speech.”

“Uh-oh. Looks like the suit is backing off.”

The fed ignored this remark. “I say ten to one McTeague’ll spit in your eye.” He added quickly, “Figuratively speaking.”

Moon tried not to look too happy. “Okay. I’ll put up fifty bucks. If you think you can risk the other number.”

An expression of unease passed over Newman’s hawkish features. “Five hundred clams?”

“Unless they’ve changed the rules, ten times fifty is still five hundred.”

“I dunno. On my salary, with my daughter in college, five hundred—”

“I sense a sudden lack of confidence on your part, Stan. A fellow less polite than me would say you are choking.”

“It’s not that, Charlie—I just can’t afford to risk that much cash on a silly bet that—”

“Then you admit you might lose the bundle?”

Newman set his jaw. “Okay, smart guy. You’re on. And now there’s the matter of how much time you’ve got to get the job done.”

“Okay. Let’s say your partner and I will have our first date within…thirty days.”

The fed’s eyes popped. “An entire month?”

“Twenty-nine?”

Newman shook his head. “Three days.”

“Twenty.”

“Six days and that’s absolutely my last word on the matter.”

“Ten.”

“Done.”

She appeared suddenly with Whitehorse, startling the gamblers. “Agent Newman, are you going to introduce me?”

The senior agent jerked his chin to indicate the tall Indian. “Agent McTeague, this is ol’ Charlie. From time to time, he pretends to do some police work for the Southern Utes. But thirty-two days a month, he’s a bronc-riding, rope-twirling cowboy-farmer who don’t know a felon from a melon and—”

“Charlie Moon, ma’am.” The owner of the name removed his black Stetson. “What Stan is trying to tell you—in his own peculiar way—is that I’m a special investigator attached to the office of the tribal chairman.” He produced the small breast-pocket leather wallet, flashed the gold shield. “And when I’m not doing Stan’s work for him, I find time to run one of the finest cattle operations in the great state of Colorado.”

“I have heard about your excellent law-enforcement work over the years, and your distinguished military service.” The smile was a little more than Mona Lisa, the tint of her eyes outright violet. “And I have heard quite a lot about the Columbine Ranch.” Special Agent McTeague offered her hand.

Moon accepted it. “From time to time—I hope we’ll have the opportunity to work together.”

McTeague’s lips parted, her smile scintillated. “I’m sure we will, Mr. Moon.”

“You can call me Charlie.”

“You may call me Special Agent McTeague.” The smile was teasing. “Or, if someday we meet on the street, Lila Mae.”

McTeague’s partner broke the spell. “There’s not too many hours of daylight left. We better get at it.”

Leaving Danny Bignight with the helicopter pilot, Whitehorse and the FBI agents followed the long-legged Ute along the edge of the massive red-sandstone slab known locally as Butterfield Mesa. Under the overhang of a rain-streaked cliff, Moon paused, stopped, turned to eye the pretty lady. “Agent McTeague, have you ever seen a woolly-mammoth petroglyph?”

Her big eyes got bigger. “Why, no.”

He pointed. “Look right up there.”

Wallace Whitehorse did not bother to look.

Special Agent Newman squinted himself cross-eyed. “I don’t see no mammoth.”

Lila Mae McTeague shaded her eyes with her hand. “Where is it?”

Moon addressed the woman. “C’mon, I’ll take you where you can get a closer look.”

She followed him up a crumbling embankment.

Newman made a move to follow his partner, felt the Northern Cheyenne’s firm grip on his arm. “What?”

The chief of police gave him a fatherly look. “Sometimes young people need to be alone.”

“
Young
people?” The fed watched Moon and McTeague climb the ridge. “Who am I—Great-granddaddy Newman?”

Wallace Whitehorse seated himself under the fanlike branch of a fragrant juniper. The sensible man found a wrinkled green apple in his pocket, wiped it off on his sleeve, took a bite. Like his life, it was a bit sour to the taste. He did not mind.

Special Agent McTeague scanned the overhang for something that looked even vaguely like a curly-tusked elephant. “I’m sorry—I still don’t see the petroglyph.”

“Look again,” Charlie Moon said. “Right up there, just to the left of that big black spot.”

She squinted. “Is there really a woolly mammoth up there?”

“No.”

McTeague turned to face the Ute. “Mr. Moon, what is this all about?”

He managed a sickly grin. “What happened to
Charlie
?”

“That was then.” She was definitely not smiling.

This was not looking good. “Uh…here’s the deal. I’ve got myself into a little bind, and I need you to help me out.”

“I beg your pardon?”

These modern professional women can be kinda sensitive, so I’ll have to be extra careful how I say this
. “Agent McTeague, I want you to know that as far as I’m concerned, you’re the same as a man.”

“What?” The word was like a pistol shot.

He blundered on, stumbling straight into the abyss. “You know—one of the guys.”

For the first time since Lila Mae McTeague had choked on a grape lollipop, she was at a loss for words.

Taking advantage of this apparent opportunity, he went into free-fall. “The fact that you’re technically a member of the other gender—that don’t mean a thing to me.”

She made a partial recovery. “You are not interested in women?”

Moon was genuinely puzzled. “Sure I am—practically all the women I see interest me.”

“But I am an exception.” She put her hands on her hips.

Why is it so hard to talk to them?
“Agent McTeague, when I said you were one of the guys, what I actually meant was—”

“That you consider me
masculine
?” There was a glint of outrage in her eyes.

“Uh—only in the
good
sense of the word.” Like a possum caught sucking eggs, Charlie Moon foolishly thought he could grin his way out of this predicament. “Fact is, I am partial to ladies that wear baggy coveralls and big hobnailed boots. And pack automatic pistols.”

“Well, make a note of this, Mr. Tact. I don’t find you all that attractive either. You’re way too…too skinny. And did I mention
weird
?”

It was apparent from his startled expression that Moon was stung by this remark.

She frowned thoughtfully at him. “Excuse me for asking, but are you on any kind of medication?”

He took a moment to think about it. “I am partial to caffeine, and need a dose every few hours.”

“Caffeine—that’s it?”

“Well, I do pop an aspirin a day. My doctor says it prevents heart trouble.”
But it don’t seem to be working right now
.

Briskly, as if attempting to dislodge an insect from her ear, Lila Mae McTeague shook her head. “What on earth is this all about?”

Moon was grateful for another chance to explain himself. “I got a proposition to make. But I don’t want you to get the idea that I’d ever flirt with you.”

“Thank you, Sir Galahad. This news does wonders for my self-esteem.”

“Thing is, I have a serious illness.”

She pretended to be surprised. “Mental?”

The tall man nodded. “You hammered that spike right on the head. I have what those high-priced brain doctors call a gambling compulsion. Why, I’ll bet on anything. The very minute a big boulder will cut loose and roll down a hill, how many time’s it’ll thunder before sundown, which two ladies will get into the first fistfight at the Bear Dance.”

“You do not sound that much different from a dozen other adolescent males that I have had the misfortune to encounter.”

“That’s because you have not heard the worst of it—I bet on things where I’m
bound
to lose. Now imagine there was sixteen fat magpies sitting on a barbwire fence.”

The bemused woman concentrated. “Okay. I can see them now.”

“See the third one from the left?”

“The scruffy one with the droopy wing?”

“That’s the bird. Right here and now, I’ll give you even money that she’ll be the one to fly away first.”

“I like the odds.”

“Now imagine you and me was standing in downtown Durango.”

“Could you be more precise?”

“On the corner of Seventh and Main.”

“I know the spot. So what are we doing?”

“Just passing away the time of day. The sun is shining. Birds are chirping.”

“Sounds wonderful. But must you be there?”

“Try and work with me on this.”

She closed her eyes. “Okay. We are standing on the corner of Seventh and Main. I think I shall have lunch at the Strater.”

“You can eat later. Notice all the traffic.”

“I can practically smell the exhaust.”

“I’ll bet you the tenth license plate to pass by will be from Saskatchewan.”

“You’re on.”

“And in four minutes flat, a snow-white pigeon will swoop down from the sky, land right at your feet, and start tap dancing and whistling Dixie.”

“A little more of this, you will be flat broke.”

“And therein lies the problem, Agent McTeague. With me, making wagers is a vice I just can’t resist. And the longer the odds, the quicker I make the fall. Which is why with all my considerable income from high-paid investigative work and the lucrative beef cattle business, I can hardly ever lay up more than a few hundred thousand dollars in the bank.”

“Mr. Moon, you are a mildly amusing man—borderline lunatics often are. And though I’m very sorry about your mental condition, I am not a qualified therapist.”

The Ute heaved a great sigh. “Then I’m in deep trouble.”

“And why should I care?”

“Thanks for asking. Just a few minutes ago, I let someone talk me into a bet. I stand to lose some serious money.”

“That is what we women in hobnailed boots call tough cheese.” Curiosity made an assault and got the better of her. “What was the nature of this wager?”

He hesitated. “Before I tell you, I want you to promise me you won’t get mad at your partner. Even though Stan knows about my sickness, he doesn’t really mean any harm when he suckers me into these bets and—”

“Special Agent Newman made a bet with you? About what?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“Well, Stan told me right off the bat that you wouldn’t like me.”

“Well, think of that.” She glanced downslope at her fellow fed. “Perhaps the man has more insight that I had given him credit for.”

The Ute continued, “And Stan bet me a sizable sum that if I asked you out on a simple, innocent date—say to have a milk shake and see a picture show and get you back home way before midnight—he said you’d laugh. And spit right in my face.”

“Date? Ha-ha.”

At least she didn’t spit
.

Stan made a bet involving me?
She scowled at her partner, who was standing fifty yards away.

Moon continued in a melancholy tone, “I knew Stan was right. A fine-looking, stylish woman like yourself wouldn’t give a homely face like mine a second look. Every bone in my body was saying, ‘Charlie—don’t you take that sucker bet. No way under heaven you can win.’” He gave her a downcast look. “But my sickness talked louder. So I laid my hard-earned money down.”

She turned to smile at him. “And you think I’ll feel sorry for you—and get you off the hook?”

“Well, I
was
kinda hoping—”

McTeague shook her head. “Absolutely not.”

“It don’t have to be a
real
date.”

She studied this odd specimen with a detached, clinical air.

Moon sensed that he was making progress. “Here’s the deal. When I ask you for a date—where Stan can hear—all you have to do is say somethin’ like, ‘Sure, Charlie—I don’t mind if I do. You can pick me up about six o’clock.’”

“That’s all?”

“Right. And o’course I won’t show up—and you can go on doing whatever you was planning to do anyway.”

She ejected the words through a quite lovely set of clenched teeth: “Not in a million years!”

“How about if I cut you in for half?”

This threw her. “Half of what?”

“Five hundred bucks.”

She groaned.

“Two hundred and fifty dollars is not small potatoes.”

The woman rolled her hands into knotty fists. “Let me get this straight—you thought I could be
bought
?”

Moon shrugged. “Thought it was worth a shot.”

“You are just the most
exasperating
man!”

The gambler played his last card: “Five hundred dollars is a lot of money for a man to lose. Especially with a daughter in college.”

She fairly shrieked. “I’ve read your entire folder—you don’t
have
a daughter!”

“It’s Stan that has the kid in college.” He grinned. “So paying out will really make him grind his teeth.” Surely she could appreciate that.

She did not. Special Agent McTeague turned, slip-slided down the crumbly bank.

He watched her go. Women were the most peculiar creatures. Feeling something staring at the back of his neck, Charlie Moon turned. Looked up at the cliff. For the briefest moment, he could have sworn that he saw—painstakingly pecked into the red stone—an ancient artist’s sketch of a massive, curly-tusked, woolly creature. It smiled down at him. Seemed about to erupt in a mammoth belly laugh.

THE ODD
quartet trudged on.

Moon marched in long, easy strides, thinking his disjointed thoughts.
This is a snipe hunt. We should be looking for Jim Wolfe. I bet he’s halfway to Panama or Costa Rica by now. But at least I’m getting paid by the hour. I think McTeague likes me. I wonder where Miss James is right now
.

Newman stomped along at Moon’s side.

Whitehorse and McTeague followed a half-dozen paces behind, the latter shooting odd looks at the gangly Ute.

Newman tossed an over-the-shoulder glance at his partner’s grim face, muttered to the Indian. “Looks like you struck out with Big League McTeague. But don’t blame me—I told you the lady throws spitballs.”

“Your partner could not see the mammoth. I think she’s a mite nearsighted, and this bothers her.” Charlie Moon smiled in a manner intended to unnerve the FBI agent. “Besides, I have not yet walked up to the plate. I am thinking of asking her out to some fancy to-do. Maybe the opera, down by Santa Fe.”

Newman knew a bluff when he heard one. “Don’t slice me no baloney.”

“Wait and see.”

“I expect to see fifty of your greenback dollar bills lining my wallet.”

Grandmother Wind roared around the edge of a butte, flung sand in their faces.

Newman muttered vile curses under his breath, spat a wad of grit out of his mouth, scowled at the Ute. “Okay, Chucky—where’s this famous pile of rocks?”

“Right over there.” The tribal investigator pointed with a tilt of his chin. “But it’s not much of a pile anymore. When Officer Wolfe was here yesterday, he scattered ’em around quite a bit.” Thirty paces later, Charlie Moon realized that he was wrong. There was indeed a pile of rocks. About eight feet long, a yard wide, knee-high. And quite neatly assembled.