White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  Perkins warmed to the soft-spoken federal agent. “Same as usual. Taciturn. Gloomy.”

  “Nothing different?”

  “Well, he was more than usual somewhat elsewhere, if you know what I mean.”

  Whitmer did not know what Perkins meant.

  Special Agent Newman did not particularly care. He was, in fact, tiring of this stuffy academic.

  Perkins sensed that he was not communicating. “What I meant was—Mr. Yazzi seemed to be somewhat—shall we say—distracted.”

  Whitmer decided this was getting nowhere. “We appreciate you taking care of Yazzi’s horse and goat. And dog.”

  Perkins favored the fed with a gracious nod. “I really don’t mind.”

  Newman felt compelled to remind the professor who was in charge. “But don’t monkey around the house. Officer Bignight is going to seal it off.”

  “It would never have occurred to me to trespass upon Mr. Yazzi’s dwelling. But the fact that you are sealing it suggests that a crime has been committed here.” Perkins waited for a response.

  Newman allowed the implied question to hang in the air. “You can go now. But we’ll be in touch.”

  Professor Perkins was about to protest this summary dismissal, but he thought better of it. And withdrew from the field.

  GEORGE AND STANLEY

  The FBI investigators were heading west on Route 160, barely ten miles from Durango. It being his turn to drive, George Whitmer was behind the wheel of the sleek Ford sedan. Not a word had been exchanged since they had left Alvah Yazzi’s home. The driver glanced at the speedometer. Sixty-three miles per hour. Whitmer eased up on the pedal until it read an even sixty. “Stan?”

  No answer.

  He mimicked Perkins’s haughty tone. “Excuse me, Your Honor.”

  “Hey—don’t get started with me.”

  A grin creased Whitmer’s cheerful face. “Just wanted to ask you something.”

  Newman was staring intensely at the rugged scenery, seeing neither lofty tree nor soaring mountain peak. “Ask away, partner.”

  “Whadda you think?”

  The younger man grunted. “Same lowlife who murdered April Tavishuts also grabbed her stepfather. To throw the authorities off his trail, the perp lays out Mr. Yazzi’s duds on the floor. Underwear is there. Socks in the boots. Even leaves the victim’s wallet in the pocket, with credit cards, plenty of folding money—the works. Then he sprinkles some dust and crap around where Yazzi’s body should be.”

  Whitmer, being somewhat of a stickler, thought motive an important consideration. “But, Stan—why did the perp do this?”

  Newman shrugged under his immaculate gray jacket. “Beats hell outta me. But whoever did it—which suggests it’s a local perp—planned on those superstitious Indian cops thinking Mr. Yazzi must’ve just went up in a puff of smoke.” He snickered. “Which is pretty much what happened. That they fell for it, I mean.”

  George Whitmer was silent.

  Newman did not like the ominous sound of this particular silence. “Go ahead. Say what you’re thinking.”

  “I’m thinking we should keep an open mind.”

  Newman was feeling snappish, so he snapped: “Open mind about what?”

  The older man swerved to miss a fat raccoon waddling across the highway. “Evidence.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Yazzi’s remains. The whole thing’s sort of…mysterious.”

  “There’s no big mystery. Somebody set it up.”

  “And you’re sure that somebody is the perp who murdered Yazzi’s stepdaughter.”

  “Who else?” But Newman was beginning to feel uneasy.

  “Maybe that weird old Navajo man left some of his duds in the house and took a hike. It could be some kind of ritual thing.” Whitmer shook his head. “I asked the forensics geek about that stuff that looks like ashes and bones and hair…”

  Newman turned to stare at the driver. “And?”

  “It’s ashes and bones, partner. And hair.”

  The younger man set his jaw. “It’ll turn out to be faked.”

  “Yazzi’s false teeth were there in the ashes.” Whitmer pushed his tongue against a loose set of dentures. “On occasion, a man may leave his wallet at home. Even his spectacles. But he don’t go nowhere without his chompers.”

  Newman was willing to concede the point. “So maybe that old Indian guy was torched by somebody—just like his stepdaughter.”

  “Not exactly. The flames that burned the girl’s corpse also burned the tent Charlie Moon set up. And a coupla piñon trees—which is what you expect from your normal, everyday fire. But whatever turned Yazzi’s body to ashes didn’t even scorch his clothes.”

  “So what’s your explanation?”

  Whitmer hesitated. “You ever hear of…SHC?”

  “You know how I hate acronyms.”

  “Spontaneous human combustion.”

  Newman rolled his eyes. “Give me a break.”

  “There’ve been several cases over the years. Some of them well documented. Victim’s body burned to a crisp, but there’s very little or no fire damage to his or her immediate surroundings.”

  “But how can that happen?”

  “There’s never a totally satisfactory explanation,” Whitmer said. “Some top-flight forensic scientists have been stymied.”

  “I don’t want to hear this.”

  Whitmer muttered: “If what turned Yazzi to ashes wasn’t a regular fire, maybe it was something else entirely.”

  “Like what?”

  “I dunno. Some kind of corrosive chemical.” Whitmer squinted through the windshield as if attempting to see something that was very, very far away. “An acid, maybe.”

  Newman felt his stomach churn.

  “A real strong acid can burn human tissues to a cinder.”

  “George—please don’t give me heartburn.”

  “And another thing.”

  “What?”

  “Mark my words—ol’ Charlie Moon knows a whole lot more’n he’s saying.”

  “He knows diddledy-squat.”

  “Bet you ten bucks Moon’ll be running his own investigation on the Tavishuts homicide.”

  Newman clutched his stomach. “He can’t do that—this is a federal case.”

  “Charlie’s a private cop now, Stan. And it’s a free country.”

  “Just drive the damn car.” He fumbled in his coat pocket for a package of Tums.

  DURANGO, COLORADO THE GIFT

  Charlie Moon had once believed he knew what was best for the aged woman. Aunt Daisy should be living in one of the comfortable tribal homes near Ignacio. But he had finally accepted the fact that he would never convince the stubborn old soul to leave her little trailer by the mouth of Cañon del Espíritu. Daisy had lived in the wilderness of this canyon country since her birth, never sleeping more than six miles from this spot. She would die here. That was the way it was. Perhaps even the way it should be.

  After winding along the rutted surface of the lane for almost twenty minutes, his Ford pickup topped the summit of a low, rocky ridge. He braked to a stop and stared through the sand-blasted windshield. The Ute had seen this place a thousand times, but it was always new. Always alive. Like long brown fingers, four sandstone mesas reached forth to grasp the land beneath. Farthest to the south was Paiute Mesa. Then the largest and most prominent—Three Sisters. A trio of sandstone projections sat like weary old women on its summit. Lurid legends repeated around tribal campfires long ago held that these were ancient Anasazi sisters who had fled to the heights to escape raiding Apaches. Cañon del Serpiente wound sinuously between Paiute and Three Sisters Mesas. Cañon del Espíritu lay peacefully between Three Sisters and Dog Leg Mesas. Beyond the barren profile of Dog Leg and the wooded depths of Silver Dollar Canyon was Black Mule Mesa.

  He let the image settle into his soul, where it could be properly contemplated. A traditional Ute could hardly find a better place to live. Or die. His mother’s bones rested in a
stone crypt far up the Canyon of the Spirits. That’s probably where Daisy would want her body placed. Or maybe she would prefer the Indian cemetery near Ignacio, on the banks of the Piños. When the aged woman felt the time drawing very near, she would tell him.

  Daisy’s small house trailer was set on cinder blocks in an oval-shaped valley at the wide mouth of the Canyon of the Spirits. When Father Raes Delfino had first seen this place, the Catholic priest had immediately given it a name—The Hollow of God’s Hand. And so it was. Around the Ute elder’s home was a sparse gathering of piñon and juniper. Among the smaller trees was a knobby, leprous-looking ponderosa. It stood lofty and lonely—isolated from its kind. At the south side of the old woman’s trailer was a small garden, watered primarily by water from her well, less from the infrequent rains. Daisy had electricity, but the telephone company was—quite understandably—unwilling to string several miles of line to serve a single, impoverished customer.

  Moon shifted to low gear and eased the F150 down the slope. The already rough road went into the mouth of Cañon del Espíritu where it gradually became even more primitive, finally petering out into a deer path several miles into that deep separation between Three Sisters and Dog Leg Mesas. He made a right turn into the barely perceptible lane that ended in what passed for a front yard at Daisy’s home.

  The old woman, her nose pressed against an aluminum-framed windowpane, watched her nephew close the pickup door, then approach the rickety porch appended to her trailer. This was an interesting surprise. For one thing, Charlie Moon wasn’t expected. For another, he had a parcel under his arm. Wrapped in shiny blue paper. Must be something for me.

  Charlie Moon sat at Daisy’s kitchen table. She eyed the gaily-wrapped box. “What’s that?”

  “Your birthday present.”

  “That’s not for six weeks.”

  “I could bring it back later.”

  She snatched the package off the table and began to pull at the blue paper.

  Moon watched her, wondering what she had been like as a child…a little girl at Christmastime, surrounded by family. There was no reason she should be so completely isolated from the rest of humanity. Or from help in an emergency. This is why he had made the purchase in Durango.

  She pulled a squarish-looking black canvas bag from the cardboard box. Frowned at it. What’s wrong with him. I don’t need no ugly purse.

  He smiled. “Open it up.”

  She did. And also frowned at the contents. “What’s this?”

  “A cellular telephone.”

  Her eyes widened. “Why’s it so big?”

  “The little ones don’t work so well out here. This is a three-watt job.” He showed her the foot-long external battery and explained how to charge it off the house current. “I’ve paid for the standard service for the next twelve months. Long-distance calls aren’t covered,” he added. “You call somebody in China, you’ll get a whopping bill.”

  “I don’t know nobody in China.”

  He grunted. Like that’d stop you.

  Daisy Perika studied the marvelous contraption in rapt silence. Now she would never be all alone again. I can call Louise-Marie LaForte. Or Father Raes. Or Charlie Moon. The Ute elder brushed away a tear and looked up at her nephew. “Thank you.”

  Moon searched his memory. But he couldn’t recall hearing the grumpy old woman use this phrase. “You’re welcome.”

  “All by myself and with no way to call for help—I could’ve died out here a hundred times. Could’ve been a heart attack. Double pneumonia. Rattlesnake bite. A criminal with a butcher knife, sneaking into my bedroom some dark night.”

  Moon took a deep breath, preparing himself for a useless confrontation. “You might want to think about spending some time up at the Columbine.”

  “Hah,” she snorted. “I know what you think. ‘Get her on the ranch for a visit, and she’ll stay.’” The Ute elder shook her head like an old warhorse. “I don’t care to live where summer’s a good ten days long—”

  “That’s a bit of an exaggeration,” he muttered. But not by much.

  “—and where it snows two or three feet at a time.” The very thought made her shiver.

  “I just thought you might want to come stay for a week or two,” Moon said. And added: “I’ve fixed up a nice place for you.”

  “I don’t need a room in your big house. I got a home of my own.”

  “Wasn’t thinking of putting you up in the ranch headquarters,” he said. Or putting up with you. “I fixed up the guest cabin.”

  Guest cabin? She gave him a sideways look. “What’s that—some little hut way up on the mountainside?”

  Moon grinned. “It’s on flat land across the lake from the ranch headquarters. Three rooms and a root cellar.” He looked around the tiny trailer home. “Lots more space than you’ve got here. And it’s got a well. LP gas for cooking and the furnace. Hot and cold running water. And,” he added with a glance toward her tiny bathroom, “a good-sized old-fashioned bathtub.”

  The aged woman considered this significant benefit. Every night, right before bedtime—soak my old bones in a great big tub, filled with hot water. What a sweet blessing that would be.

  “But I don’t suppose you’d like the guest cabin,” he said cagily. “It’s way on the other side of the lake. Nobody ever goes over there. You’d probably get lonesome.”

  She sighed. This sounded pretty good. Privacy. And help always near at hand. A big bathtub. But she wouldn’t agree to visit her nephew right away. It would make Charlie Moon think he was oh-so-smart. Daisy gave the amiable young man an accusing look. “So why didn’t you buy me one of these fancy phones years ago?”

  “Couldn’t afford it.” Even now, it was a stretch on his budget. Moon was looking over her gray head, focusing his vision on a deerskin drum. It hung by a rawhide thong from a coat hook. That had belonged to one of Daisy’s three husbands. The second one, he thought.

  There was a long pause as they listened to the croaking call of a raven.

  She wondered what was going on in the outside world. “Any news from Ignacio?” Her interests generally stopped at the reservation boundary.

  He didn’t particularly want to discuss what had happened to April Tavishuts. But Daisy would find out soon enough. And she’d be furious if her nephew—the tribal investigator—hadn’t told her before all the other old ladies on the reservation got the gruesome news. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  “About what?”

  He avoided her searching look. “April Tavishuts.”

  Daisy closed her eyes. “She’s dead.”

  How did you know? But from his long experience with the old shaman, he did not ask. She’d just tell me some ghost story. “Afraid so.”

  For some time, her lips moved in silent prayer for the spirit of the young woman who had departed from Middle World. Then she spoke aloud. “How did it happen?”

  Moon took a deep breath. “Don’t know for sure.” The details were police business. And I’m a tribal lawman again. More or less.

  The old woman pressed her lips together, then muttered darkly: “I knew it.” She shot her nephew a beady-eyed look. “It’s got something to do with Chimney Rock and those old ruins—don’t it?”

  He kept his gaze focused on the drum. “That’s where her body was found.”

  “When?”

  “Day before yesterday.”

  “April’s stepfather—how’d he take the news?”

  Moon shrugged.

  “What does that mean?”

  “If Alvah had anything to say, I didn’t hear it.”

  Daisy Perika was annoyed by this evasive response. But when her nephew was determined not to talk about something, you couldn’t pry a word out of him with a crowbar. Not that the shaman was greatly discouraged. There were other, more reliable ways to find out what was going on. Now that I got me a telephone.

  8

  The first weapon is called hat tslin it lish ka’, the lightning
that strikes crooked. The second weapon is hat tsol ilthe ka’, the lightning that flashes straight.

  —Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee

  THE VISITATION

  IT WAS A few minutes past midnight. A silvery moon hung high in a cloudless sky. Strewn across the cosmic fabric, a spray of distant suns sparkled with inner fire. On a low, rocky ridge overlooking Daisy Perika’s trailer home, a pygmy owl hunched ogrelike on the pale arm of a lightning-charred juniper skeleton. The predator blinked enormous yellow eyes at the Ute elder’s domicile—but did not hoot her nightly call. Something was not right in this lonely place. The prudent fowl departed with a slow whuff-whuff of wings.

  Daisy’s dreams were infested by the skittering vermin of netherworlds. Frightening apparitions flitted about the dark landscape of her unconscious. Shadowy forms they were, sharp-toothed things with a lust for the blood in her veins. One hideous phantom pleaded mockingly for the shaman’s help. Cure me, old woman—make me a potion. I suffer so from itching, burning boils. Others—even more malignant spirits—called hauntingly to her: Come and be one with us…we are a great legion.

  The troubled sleeper groaned, and turned heavily from her right side to her left. Now there was a hollow, thumping sound. And she heard someone calling her by name. Summoning her away from this world of troubled dreams.

  The shaman, instantly awake, sat up in bed. Holding the quilt to her chest, Daisy Perika listened intently. Straining to hear the slightest sound, she was relieved to hear nothing. It wasn’t real. Just a nightmare trying to come to life. She fell back against a sweat-soaked pillow and sighed. Then heard it again.

  Thump.

  Her feet were on the floor in a moment. She looked out windows on both sides of her bedroom. The moonlight was bright enough to cast dark shadows under the piñons. But no one was there. No one who could be seen. Her mind searched for an explanation. Maybe an owl had flown into the aluminum trailer wall.

  But again—Thump. Thump. As if some giant hand slapped the face of her home.

  She burrowed around urgently in the closet where the twelve-gauge shotgun was kept.