White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  The middle-aged woman behind the cherry desk wore a pinstriped suit and an expression of quiet superiority. The federal policeman flashed his ID. Unimpressed by this display of credentials, she peered through tiny rimless spectacles at the man in the suit. “Yes?”

  Newman pocketed his ID. “I’m here to see Charlie Moon.”

  Her thin lips curled in a perfunctory smile. “I should imagine so.” By way of explanation, she added: “Mr. Moon is, at the moment, our only…client.” The management—which considered itself quite progressive—enforced a strict policy. All employees wore conservative suits. Those who were serviced on the premises were referred to as “clients.” The facilities had been carefully remodeled to disguise the actual business conducted. The receptionist pointed a manicured finger to indicate the south wing. “You will find Mr. Moon in the Jasmine Room.” Under the former management, the rooms had been identified with mere numbers. Now they were Jasmine, Whippoorwill, Lupine, Shady Brook…

  Stanley Newman thought about knocking. But that was hardly necessary. He reached for the white porcelain knob. Before he could grasp the implement, it turned in his hand. He backed off. The door opened.

  Daisy Perika’s small, hunched-over form emerged slowly, as if every step required a concentrated locomotive effort.

  Poor woman. She looks a hundred years old. “Hello, Mrs. Perika.”

  Charlie Moon’s aunt blinked at the pale matukach, her deeply furrowed face registering an inner confusion.

  He managed a weak smile. “I’m Stanley Newman. FBI.”

  She stared.

  Newman cleared his throat. “I’m Charlie’s friend.”

  Daisy Perika dismissed this with a snort. Everybody claimed to be Charlie’s friend. She shook her finger at him. “I told my nephew for years—he should get out of the police business. He never listened to me, not once. Said he had to earn a living and police work was what he liked. Then, just like a gift from God in heaven, a fine ranch property falls into Charlie’s lap. So what does he do, the big jughead? Go and grow some hamburger like a normal human being? Does he listen to his aunt, who has always give him good advice?”

  Newman was uncertain whether she expected him to respond to these questions.

  She did not. “No, sir, he don’t.” Daisy banged her walking stick onto the carpet with a soft thump. “First chance he gets, he’s up to his armpits in murders and witchcraft and God only knows what else.” She turned to glare at the closed door. “And look where it’s got him.” Without a good-bye to the FBI agent, she marched away down the hall toward the crowded lobby, muttering dark syllables Newman could not hear.

  Stanley Newman entered the Jasmine Room. Though modified for its current function, such necessities as were required were cunningly disguised. Against the south wall, there was a maple wardrobe flanked by an enormous chest of drawers. A crystal chandelier hung from the precise center of the plastered ceiling. It was just large enough to be impressive, but not so massive as to offend good taste. Centered under this sparkling array of lights was a circular oak table. It was about the right size for six hands of poker, Newman thought. The north end of the large room was dominated by an overstuffed couch perched on gracefully curved maple legs. There were three matching chairs. This might have been a sumptuous bedroom in a wealthy person’s home. As once it was. Now it was something else entirely.

  The federal policeman saw Charlie Moon’s long frame resting near a mullioned window that overlooked the river. Maybe Charlie enjoys the view. He was pleased that Moon was not alone in the room.

  A rumpled-looking Scott Parris wore a three-day stubble over a glum expression. Charlie Moon’s best friend was staring intently at a watercolor of purple asters in an alabaster vase.

  Newman faked a small cough.

  Parris turned. “Morning, Stan.”

  “Hi.” Newman glanced toward the still form. “Too bad about Charlie.”

  “Yeah.” Too bad.

  The federal agent stepped softly across the thick carpet toward the place where Moon lay. Though the room was distinctly chilly, the Ute’s form was draped lightly in a pink satin sheet. Newman stood there, staring at the still face. All things considered, Charlie looked fairly presentable. Newman turned to Moon’s best friend. “Old buddy, you look like death warmed over. And that’s a compliment.”

  Scott Parris rubbed at bloodshot eyes. “Police work is getting me down.”

  “Why don’t you go find some breakfast.” Newman slapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll keep watch here.”

  “Thanks anyway. I’m not hungry.”

  The fed glanced at the form on the bed. “He said anything yet?”

  “Nothing that makes any sense. But the doc says he’s getting stronger.”

  Moon grunted.

  Parris was at the bed in one second flat. “Charlie?”

  The patient blinked bleary eyes. “Scott…that you?”

  His friend grinned from ear to ear. “Well. You’re back.”

  “What day is it?”

  Parris told him.

  Moon took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. “I been out that long?”

  “You’ve suffered a serious head injury. For a while, it was a close thing. Once or twice, we thought you’d left us.”

  From some far place, Moon thought he heard a lonely whistle blow. The Blue Train…

  “So how do you feel?”

  “Like my head exploded.” Moon’s fingertips explored the satin sheet. He tried to raise his head from the pillows, but was unable to perform this simple task. “Anybody been here to see me?”

  Parris knew who anybody was. “I haven’t been able to get in touch with your sweetheart. Camilla’s away on an extended overseas trip.”

  The Ute didn’t respond to this news.

  “But you got a visitor here now. Besides me, I mean.”

  “Who?”

  “Serious-looking fellow in a gray three-piece suit.”

  Moon almost grinned. “Newman or Whitmer?”

  “The mean one.”

  “Hah—Newman.”

  The fed looked over Parris’s shoulder. “Maybe it’s just as well your sweetheart’s not here. I doubt she’d be able to look at you.”

  “I’m bunged up pretty bad, huh?”

  “Nah,” Parris said. “Nothing broke but your noggin.”

  The FBI agent grinned. “Damn lucky thing it wasn’t a vital organ.”

  “Did they cut into my head?”

  “I hate to be the one to tell you,” Newman said with a happy smile, “surgeon took about a cupful of scrambled brains out. Which is more than some of us thought you had.”

  “Thank you.”

  Parris seated himself by the bed. “Lucky thing you didn’t lay out there all night.”

  “Out where?”

  So you don’t remember. “Up by Chimney Rock.”

  The Ute relaxed his mind, allowed the drifting pieces to come together. “Oh yeah.” Ghost Wolf Mesa. Coffee with Amanda Silk. Something ugly looking in her trailer window…following us to April’s grave? “Who found me?”

  “Far as we know,” Newman said, “a dog.”

  “Run that by me again.”

  The FBI agent consulted his notebook. “Here’s how it went down. Mr. Bushman got a call from your aunt Daisy, who was certain you were in mortal danger.”

  Moon sighed. “How’d she know?”

  No one had an answer to that.

  Newman cleared his throat. “Mr. Bushman and his wife drove all the way down to Chimney Rock, just to see if you were all right.”

  “Good people,” Moon said.

  The federal lawman flipped a page. “Bushmans stopped when they spotted your pickup on the mesa, then they heard a dog howling over in the ruins. Mr. Bushman went to see what all the fuss was about. Didn’t actually see the dog, but he did find you. More dead than alive. From the knees up, you were stuffed in a hole in the ground. Same hole where the Tavishuts woman’s body was found. And there was somethin
g kinda peculiar. You were covered with sticks and pine needles—looked like some kind of ritual burial.” He closed the notebook. “That’s about it.” But it wasn’t.

  “What about Amanda Silk?”

  Newman responded in a monotone. “What about her?”

  “She was with me.”

  The special agent looked out the window. A puffy shawl of cumulus was draped over the shoulders of a sprawling, spruce-studded mountain. “Mr. Bushman also found Dr. Silk.”

  “Found her where?”

  “Where she’d fallen. Halfway in the trench—practically on top of you.” Face all pale and twisted.

  “Dead?”

  “I sure hope so,” Newman grunted. “She was buried yesterday.”

  Again, Moon tried to move his head; a dull pain thudded behind his left ear. “How’d she die?”

  Not easy. Newman watched the ivory blades of an antique ceiling fan rotate slowly. “Her heart stopped beating.”

  The injured man was not in a mood for word games. “Why did her heart stop?”

  “I asked the medical examiner about that,” Newman muttered, “and he said…” Like a faint trail in a thick forest, the syllables slipped away into the shadows.

  “What’d the ME say?”

  Newman clamped his mouth shut.

  Scott Parris’s face wore a hollow, haunted expression. “Charlie, it’s kinda technical. When you’re feeling better, you can talk to the medical examiner yourself.”

  Moon was silent for a while before asking the obvious question. “You have any idea who murdered Amanda?”

  As if his hands were suddenly cold, Newman began rubbing his palms together. “We don’t know for sure she was…ahh…murdered, Charlie. At least not in a legal sense.”

  “You have any idea who conked me on the head?”

  The special agent’s blush matched the pink satin sheet on Moon’s bed. “Not exactly.”

  “You got any evidence at all?”

  The fed studied his highly polished shoes as if he’d never seen them before. Tiny lights from the chandelier sparkled back at him. “Well, there was that dog Bushman heard howling. We found a couple of paw prints at the edge of the—uh—excavation where you were dumped.”

  “So you’re looking for somebody who owns a dog.”

  Newman was still looking out the window. “Big dog.”

  Charlie Moon rubbed gingerly at the thick patch of bandages on his skull. “That don’t narrow it down much.”

  The fed glanced at Moon. “Mr. Alvah Yazzi owns a big dog.”

  Owns? Moon tried to see through the bandages. “Then you’re sure he’s not dead?”

  “Not unless a great big truck’s run over him.” Newman relished this image.

  “You got a warrant out on Alvah?”

  “I’m working on it.” Newman felt a choking sensation, pulled at his tie. “There’s no law against scattering some wood ashes and chips of animal bones in your clothes. Not unless hoaxing your death is part of a conspiracy to commit a crime. Or,” he added with a steely edge to his voice, “the hoax is for the purpose of evading prosecution for a felony. You hear about those fingerprints on the obsidian chip at the excavation site?”

  “Word gets around.”

  “They turned out to be Mr. Yazzi’s.”

  Moon thought about this. “I can’t see that old Navajo messing around in the ruins.”

  “It’s plain enough if you’re willing to look at the facts, Charlie—Mr. Yazzi was the man those two women saw at his stepdaughter’s grave that night.” The special agent’s face relaxed into an expression somewhere between satisfied and downright smug. “So that explains why the old sonofagun went to so much trouble to convince us he’d burned to death in his clothes. Must’ve thought by the time the Bureau caught on to his ruse, he’d be in deep hiding. He’s probably somewhere on the Navajo Reservation. But wherever he is, we’ll find him.”

  Moon thought the federal agent was being unduly optimistic. If Alvah Yazzi was holed up on the Big Rez, the FBI and the National Guard and All the King’s Men would have a hard time flushing him out. “So what’s Yazzi’s motive for murdering his stepdaughter?”

  Newman started to say something, then swallowed the words. “We’re working on that.”

  Moon felt like changing the subject. “Anybody else come to see me?”

  “Your aunt’s been checking on you,” Parris said. “Tribal chairman stopped by a couple of times. Chief of Police Whitehorse was here yesterday with Father Raes Delfino. The Bushmans come in almost every day. Dolly keeps bringing you things to eat. Just on the off chance you wake up hungry.”

  Moon brightened at this news. “Like what?”

  “Nothing special. Apple pies. Deep-dish peach cobblers.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “They were,” Parris said.

  “I been to the Columbine,” Newman said. “Some of your seedy-looking cowboys been asking about you. Couple of ’em look like their ugly kissers oughta be on wanted posters. One of ’em is a wetback if I ever seen one.” He grinned. “Maybe I should drop a hint to the immigration boys that you’re hiring illegals.”

  “Don’t go messing with my help,” the Ute muttered. “Good cowhands are hard to find.”

  Newman assumed his stern, official look. “And there’s this kid who looks like he ain’t old enough to get a tricycle driver’s license. Claims he’s paying tuition at the Columbine to learn how to be a sure-enough cowpoke.” The federal lawman gave the patient a one-eyed squint. “You got a state license to operate a cowboy school, Charlie?”

  Moon ignored the rude question. “Where’s Melina Castro?”

  “We’ve offered to move her to another location,” Newman said. “But she’s gone to stay with a friend. I wonder—are you concerned about the welfare of our witness, or the outrageous fee you’re expecting to collect for her room and board?”

  “Speaking of money, when do I get paid?”

  “Don’t worry about it—we’re the government—you can trust us.” The federal agent was in remarkably good humor. “Check’s practically in the mail.” Newman’s gut-wrenching laughter tailed off into a coughing fit.

  Scott Parris couldn’t help smiling. “Speaking of visitors, Charlie—there’s a dozen or so hard cases you locked up at one time or another hanging out in the lobby. They keep asking me, ‘Is ol’ Charlie Moon dead yet?’”

  Newman had partially regained his composure. “You might as well know, Charlie—there’s a ten-dollar pool going on when you’ll give up the ghost.”

  “I was holding six A.M. this morning,” Parris said.

  “Tough luck,” Newman said. “I got two A.M. tomorrow. Hey, who knows what’ll happen? Charlie might still cash in his chips shortly after midnight.”

  Moon ran his fingers over the bandages on his head. “Is there any good news?”

  The visitors considered this question.

  Newman could not come up with anything positive.

  “Your aunt Daisy’s in the lobby,” Parris offered.

  “I said good news.”

  “I’ll tell her you said that.”

  “How’s she taking this?”

  “Old woman’s madder’n I’ve ever seen her. Figures the whole thing’s all your fault. Soon as you’re well enough, I expect she’ll kill you.”

  “Thank you for cheering me up, pardner.” Moon had a look at the elegant room. “This don’t look like Mercy Hospital.”

  Parris shook his head. “You only spent a couple of days in Durango. You’re in my jurisdiction now—bunked out in Snyder Memorial. The annex, no less. The Ritz of Colorado’s intermediate-care facilities.”

  Moon raised an eyebrow; even this simple gesture was painful. “Who’s gonna pay the bill?”

  Parris shrugged. “Barter with ’em. Maybe you can ship the joint a couple head of prime beef.” The attorney who managed Moon’s taxes was seeing to the finances.

  The FBI agent glanced at his wristwatch without noting th
e time. “Look, Charlie—I got some other stuff to do. I’ll talk to you later, after your head clears up. When you’ve got all your thoughts together, we’ll want a statement—okay?”

  “Don’t slam the door on your way out. I’ve got an eye-popping headache.”

  Special Agent Newman closed the door ever so softly.

  Moon tried to think of just how to broach the sensitive subject. “I got to ask you something.”

  Parris rested one scuffed boot on the bed frame. “Shoot.”

  “When you and Stan Newman was talking at the same time, I couldn’t make out what you was saying. Do you think this conk on the bean has made me kinda…dumb?”

  “Nah. Injury had nothing to do with it. You’ve just finally realized your limited potential.”

  “Thank you kindly,” the Ute said.

  “Don’t mention it. But you owe me a favor in return.”

  “I’ll do my best. As long as it don’t involve any hard thinking.”

  “I figure you had a good reason to go up to Chimney Rock. So don’t hold out on your buddy.”

  Moon’s vision was hazy. “We all alone now?”

  “Like two skunks at church.”

  “Then I’ll tell you about the pictograph.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Whoever made the sketch in stone was a sort of magician. A conjurer.”

  “Maybe you could enlarge on that just a bit.”

  “It was a matter of misdirection.”

  Parris slapped his forehead. “Oh, now I get it.”

  “You’re faster than I thought.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “Oh.”

  “Go ahead. Explain.”

  “Remember what was sketched on the sandstone?”

  Parris scratched at the stubble on his chin, and tried to recall the memory of what he’d seen in a newspaper photo. “It was—lemme see. Oh yeah—these two little guys.”

  “The Twin War Gods,” Moon said.