White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  “Pardner, whenever the U.S. government gets involved in a citizen’s business, just about anything can happen. And it’s usually something bad.” Moon looked toward the mountain ridge.

  “Like what?”

  “They might confiscate my dog. For evidence or something.”

  “Arrest your mutt?” Parris laughed. “Surely you’re not serious.”

  “They got Sidewinder’s paw print at the pit house. Right where Dr. Silk dropped dead.”

  “You don’t know for a fact that it’s your dog’s print.”

  “I sure don’t intend to take Sidewinder into Stan Newman’s office for a comparison.”

  There was a grin in Parris’s voice. “Sounds like you’re getting sweet on that old hound.”

  Moon exhaled a long sigh. “He’ll do.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you come to know so much about Dr. Silk’s personal business.” Parris grinned. “Or is this about ninety-nine percent guesswork?”

  “That matukach woman was a meticulous scientist. Wrote down what she did in a ledger. Kept it in her camp trailer.”

  Parris raised a hand in protest. “Just a minute. Hold on. Whoa, there.”

  “You fall off your horse, pardner?”

  “Please don’t tell me that this highly educated, presumably intelligent person recorded detailed evidence of her capital crimes.”

  “Oh, no. Dr. Silk was way too smart for that. But there was a lot of incriminating information in her book.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, an entry from last March about her discovery of the Twin War Gods petroglyph. And just a few days later, her idea about what the tilted spears must mean. Following that, pages and pages of sketches. Trigonometry. Compass headings.”

  “If this record book was in her trailer, why didn’t the FBI find it?”

  “They found the new one.”

  “Please explain.”

  “Well, pardner, first time I visited her camp trailer, Dr. Silk had this big green ledger. And it wasn’t half filled. Should’ve lasted her for a long, long time. But the next time I had coffee at her table, she was scribbling in a blue ledger. Way I see it, right after she kills April Tavishuts, the archaeologist buys herself a new ledger to keep in the trailer, stashes the incriminating one at home. Once April’s body is found, she doesn’t want anyone reading her research notes. Her motive for murder was right there in her own handwriting. And to top it off, Amanda’s last entry in the original ledger was on the day April was murdered.”

  “So where did Special Investigator Moon find this remarkable piece of evidence?”

  “Garage sale.”

  “You’re making this up, aren’t you?”

  “Nope. I bought the ledger in a box full of junk down in Chama, where Dr. Silk’s nephew was selling off her stuff.”

  “Okay. You’re sure Amanda Silk is the felon. But the FBI’s looking for Mr. Yazzi.”

  “They’re not looking so hard since I gave ’em Dr. Silk’s original ledger.” Moon waited for a compliment. And waited. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So what do you think of my investigation?”

  “Give me a moment.”

  “You are a deliberate man.”

  “I am trying to think of an appropriate superlative.”

  “Then take your time, pardner.”

  Parris considered and rejected several explosive adjectives. Then hit on one that was just right. “I’d say…adequate. Yeah. Your investigation was adequate.”

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  “Okay. Your investigation was stupendously adequate.”

  “Now that’s more like it.”

  Parris looked up at the stars. An artificial satellite passed north to south. Russian, he thought. Spying on America. Hello, Ivan—here’s spit in your eye. He spat. The missile fell far short.

  THE HALLUCINATION

  Scott Parris had spent some time turning Moon’s theory over in his mind. “I find the whole thing hard to believe. Three people dead—all because of some scratches on a rock.”

  The Ute stretched his long legs into a bath of creamy moonlight. “It makes perfect sense to my aunt Daisy. She claims that petroglyph was made a thousand years ago by an Anasazi priest—to help him find what he’d hidden.”

  “So what do you think, Charlie? Is there a fabulous Anasazi artifact buried on Ghost Wolf Mesa?”

  “Not now, there ain’t.”

  Parris stared through the midnight at his friend. “You found it?”

  “With some help from my dog.” Charlie Moon told his friend a tale about a prehistoric ceramic. Inside the clay pot was a twenty-six-pound iron meteorite. A flaming tear shed by White Shell Woman? Perhaps.

  “Digging up stuff like that is against the law,” the Granite Creek chief of police observed. “A man could get into big trouble.”

  “Only if he gets caught.”

  “So you figure you’re in the clear.”

  “Maybe,” Moon said. Maybe not. Something was moving in the moon-shadow cast by a leaning cottonwood.

  They heard iron hinges creak behind them. Anne, a long winter coat covering her silk pajamas, materialized in the doorway. “Well?”

  There was no response from the men, who did not understand the question.

  She pulled the coat more tightly around her slim waist. “Are you two going to sit out here till daylight?”

  “It is a fine night for sitting,” Parris said.

  Anne closed the door. They heard her feet padding up the stairs.

  Parris tried to wiggle his toes. Couldn’t feel them. Maybe they’re frostbit. About ready to turn black and fall off. I could get gangrene and die. Anne would never let me forget it. In an effort to scare some feeling back into his feet, Parris banged his boot heels against the sturdy porch planks. “Charlie, there’s something I got to discuss with you.”

  “Discuss away, pardner.”

  “Your aunt is concerned about your injury. She wanted me to find out whether…well…”

  “Whether I’m doing better?”

  “Well, that wasn’t exactly the way she put it.” Parris folded his hands in prayerful fashion. “This is kinda hard for me.”

  “Just tell me what she said.”

  “I would rather not.”

  “But being the silver-tongued devil you are, I bet you can think of a polite, civilized way to represent Aunt Daisy’s concerns about the state of my mental health.”

  “Lemme see. Okay, here goes: Has your brain turned to turnip mush. Do you see a bullfrog in a top hat dancing on you knee. Should I hide your sidearm before you do something incredibly stupid.”

  “Is this true-false or multiple choice?”

  “Look, I got to tell her how you’re doing. So level with me—is that whack on the skull causing you any serious problems?”

  “You mean did I shoot up my John Deere tractor?”

  “Mrs. Perika did mention the incident in passing.”

  “Alleged incident. In my whole life, I have never aimed a loaded firearm at any farm equipment. Besides, a rancher’s tractor is his friend.”

  “Shame on you for teasing your elderly relative.”

  “Had to convince her I was crazy enough to shoot an old Navajo in my root cellar. Only way to get Aunt Daisy to admit what she’d done.” And it was the most fun I’d had in months.

  “I’m willing to bet Alvah Yazzi had already told you that Mrs. Perika brought him to the Columbine.”

  “He had,” Moon admitted. “But the confession was good for her soul.”

  “You have evaded my question.”

  “Which question was that?”

  “Is your head injury causing you any problems?”

  “None worth mentioning.”

  “Go ahead. Mention.”

  “It won’t help none.”

  “I am your best friend,” Parris said evenly. “I will damn well find a way to help.”

  Might as well humor
him. So Charlie Moon told Scott Parris about the apparition. Ever since Aunt Daisy had planted the poisonous seed of suggestion—which was well fertilized by the fantastic tale the Zuni child had told him—the noxious weed had grown and flowered in his imagination. It was not real, of course—this wispy apparition of a leathery-faced old man, his gaunt frame draped in a feathered blanket, the skin of an albino wolf draped over his back. The hallucination generally began with the first touch of twilight. The wizard would materialize a dozen yards or so beyond the porch, his lips moving in a silent chant, bare feet dancing a slow, shuffling step. Four to the right. Four to the left. Over and over again. This somber demonstration would continue as the sun fell behind the granite peak and the mountain’s black shadow exploded across the valley to envelop the Columbine. Sometimes, after many hours, the dancer would arch his thin back like a rainbow of sinew and bone—reach down to flatten splayed fingers onto the earth—and shake off the form of man. What was left would assume the shape of a pale four-legged creature. Head hung low, black tongue lolling over teeth made for tearing flesh, cracking bone. This shadow-animal would pace back and forth where the wizard-priest had danced. On occasion, it would stop to glare at the Ute. Moon would watch the nonexistent creature into the small hours. And think his troubled thoughts. Ugly-looking devil…scary enough to frighten someone to death? As the rising sun touched the mountains, the apparition would depart. For a time.

  According to Aunt Daisy, the phantom’s visits would not cease until the precious object Moon had removed from the pit house was buried again. But not on Ghost Wolf Mesa. This time, White Shell Woman’s tear must be concealed on the long saddle of sandstone rubble stretching between the Twin War Gods. Though the apparition was no more than a malignant fantasy infecting his wounded mind, Moon knew of no other way to evict the imaginary guest. This being the case, he had followed his aunt’s instructions to the letter. But the shaman’s therapy had not succeeded. The phantom still came to torment him. “And that’s about it,” Moon said in conclusion. “Guess my brain needs more time to heal.” The Ute was unsettled by a flickering shadow under the cottonwoods. He closed his eyes to keep out the darkness. Too late. The darkness was already inside.

  Parris shook his head. “Never thought I’d live to see the day—Charlie Moon visited by a haunt.”

  “Yeah. You were always the spooky one.”

  Parris chewed on this. And the jerky. “I don’t much like that word, Charlie.”

  “Spooky?”

  “It makes me seem, well…peculiar.”

  Charlie Moon pondered the issue. “How about—you were always the perceptive one.”

  “Well…I guess perceptive is sorta okay. If that’s the best you can do.”

  “How about stupendously perceptive?”

  Parris nodded. “Now that’s more like it.”

  THE EXORCIST

  Time passed smoothly, unsevered by the ratchet-hatchet of ticks and tocs. And it came to pass that the whole disk of ivory moon was visible to the men. About to roll off the porch roof.

  Scott Parris was oblivious to the pale, pockmarked face. He chewed contentedly on the cud of beef jerky. And thought about all he had heard. And seen. “Charlie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “This old geezer-priest draped in the wolf skin—you say he shows up every single night?”

  Moon was staring at the porch floor. “And stays till the sun comes over the mountain.”

  “So you can see him right now.”

  The Ute allowed himself a quick glance. “Afraid so.”

  “What you need is plenty of rest.” Parris drummed his fingers on the chair arm. “Why don’t you go upstairs and hit the hay.”

  “Won’t do any good.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “Yeah. He comes with me.”

  “Right into your bedroom?”

  The haunted man nodded. This hallucination had no sense of propriety.

  “Must make it hard to get a night’s sleep.”

  “It don’t help a whole lot.”

  “So what’re you gonna do about it?”

  “Wait him out,” Moon said. When I get well, he’ll go away.

  The broad-shouldered man pushed himself to his feet. Clenched big hands into knobby fists. “Well that does it—I have had enough.”

  Moon was staring helplessly at the dancing phantom. “Going up to bed, then?”

  “Not just yet.” Parris’s voice was soft as kitten fur. “I have had a crawful of this Anasazi intruder. Anyone who makes trouble for my buddy has got me to deal with.” The policeman slipped a hand under his coat. Callused fingertips crawled across the tread of a corduroy shirt—toward the shoulder holster.

  This odd behavior piqued Moon’s interest. He inquired about his friend’s intentions.

  Parris produced a short-nosed Smith & Wesson revolver. “I am going to shoot Mr. Wolf-Man a new rectal orifice.”

  “I—uh—don’t think you oughta do that.”

  The gunman rolled the cylinder under his thumb. It was fully stuffed with five .38-caliber copper-clad slugs. “Why not?”

  “A gunshot’ll scare your fiancée.”

  Parris turned to his left. He raised the weapon, took careful aim at a spot where a long moon-shadow snaked its way to the base of a cottonwood tree. “Give me a better reason.”

  “Well, sensible folk hereabouts might think you’ve lost your mind.”

  He cocked the pistol. “Trust me, Charlie. I know how to deal with this trespassing badass.”

  The Ute felt the skin prickling on the back of his neck. He’s kidding.

  Scott Parris closed one eye and looked down the barrel. “Hold still, you scraggly old bugger. Right…that’s it.” He whispered thirteen words.

  He’s not kidding! “Shooting at it won’t do no good. It’s not real—”

  The lawman pulled the trigger. The hammer fell. In the perfect stillness, the explosive report boomed as the very crack of doom.

  There was a startled yelp from Anne’s upstairs bedroom.

  The Ute—who had been holding his breath—exhaled a raspy sigh.

  The Granite Creek chief of police blew an imaginary wisp of smoke off the tip of the stubby barrel, holstered the sidearm. “Don’t bother to thank me.”

  “For what?”

  Parris pointed.

  Moon leaned forward. Squinted. “He’s gone.”

  “Damn right. And he’ll stay gone.”

  A sleepy-eyed Anne Foster cracked the door. Peeked out onto the porch. “What on earth was that awful noise?”

  “Gunshot,” Parris said. He patted his jacket over the shoulder holster.

  The lovely woman brushed a scarlet lock off her cheek. “What did you shoot?”

  Her fiancé spat a parabolic arc of jerky juice. “Hostile Indian.”

  “Okay—don’t tell me.” She slammed the door. Lunatics!

  THE QUESTION

  Having completed trillions of tireless circumnavigations, White Shell Woman glided serenely toward that vast emptiness beyond the granite peaks.

  Scott Parris was likewise serene in the shadows. And smugly satisfied with himself. Moreover, his toes were now toasty-warm. He attributed this touch of grace to his victory over Darkness.

  Charlie Moon stood stock-still, staring off into the shadows. A small, sensible segment of his mind knew better than to ask the question. But the inquiring majority of that convoluted organ wanted to know. He turned to his friend. “Pardner, there is one thing that puzzles me.”

  “Only one?” Parris cocked a bushy eyebrow. “Me, I am mystified by all sorts of stuff.” He tilted his happy face skyward to smile at the rotating swirl of fiery spheres. “I wonder whether space just goes on and on forever and ever, or is it curved and twisted so that if a fella could eyeball it out there far enough, he’d see the back of his head. And that’s just for starters. There’s urgent questions about multidimensional string theory—quantum gravity—parallel universes. Not to mention the
conundrum of entangled photons.”

  “What I wonder about is—”

  “And does toad frogs cause warts? Well, if you ask me, the jury is still out on that one.” Parris stretched out his arms as if to embrace the Infinite Unknown. “My friend, this old universe is stuffed chockful of deep mysteries wanting solutions. Big questions waiting for big answers.”

  “Well let ’em want and wait.” Moon squinted at the Big Dipper. “I got something in my mouth that needs saying.”

  Parris tapped his boot heel on a redwood plank. “The floor is yours.”

  “What you did for me, pardner—I appreciate it.”

  “Please. I am modest to a fault. Praise—however well deserved—makes me blush.”

  The Ute hesitated to raise the troublesome issue, but the thing must be said now or never. “I just don’t understand how it worked.”

  “There’s no real mystery, Charlie.” The gunslinger tapped a finger on his temple. “The sudden, loud noise reset your brain back to normal. Kinda like shock therapy.”

  Moon counted a dozen heartbeats. “There’s something more I need to say.”

  “Say it.”

  “We been pardners for a long time.”

  Parris nodded. “That we have.”

  “So what’s mine is yours. My pickup truck. My last greenback dollar. Even my brand-new John B. Stetson hat.”

  “I appreciate that, Charlie.”

  The Ute took a deep breath. “But there’s some things a man don’t share—not even with his best friend.”

  The policeman frowned. “Like what?”

  “Well…like his woman. Or toothbrush.”

  There was an audible smirk in Parris’s reply. “Well, I don’t see what the problem is. Now that Camilla’s given you the kiss-off, you don’t have no woman for me to covet. And I already own a three-dollar toothbrush.”

  “This is not about women. Or toothbrushes.”

  “Quit dancing around the cow pie, Charlie—say what’s on your mind.”

  Moon’s words came slowly. “A sick man’s hallucination is kinda personal—not something he cares to share. Not even with his best friend.”

  The white man pushed himself to his feet, walked stiffly to the edge of the porch. “Well, if that don’t take the cake—now Charlie Moon thinks us sane and healthy folks can see his illusions.” He turned toward the Ute. “That’s just about the damnedest notion I ever heard.”