Three Sisters

by James D. Doss

  One Down

  The state-police cruiser lurched off the highway, over the rocky shoulder, bounced off a two-ton boulder, tumbled end-over-end down the slope, crashed sixty-three feet below in Granite Creek.

  Elmer Jackson’s final prayer, which never quite made it out of his mouth, was, Oh, God Almighty! But these silent words were heard.

  The mangled vehicle, the broken body, would not be found until dawn. It was all right. Elmer had no further need of either of them. This good pilgrim’s long, difficult journey was over.

  Instant Replay

  It is odd, how quickly a notion becomes accepted by the mind as a fact. When Scott Parris glanced at the Cadillac’s rearview mirror and saw the profile of the truck, he was still picturing Nicholas Moxon on the mountainside. With a rifle. Crosshairs on Cassandra’s classic Cadillac. That big rig’s coming on awfully fast. I’d better pull over onto the shoulder, give the knucklehead plenty of room to pass.

  But as the monster pickup closed, it stayed in the same lane.

  What in hell…?

  As it happened, Parris had phrased his question well.

  Forty-One

  End Game

  Having spent most of the past hour asking himself, what am I in such a hurry for? and getting no answer aside from the wordless urgings from his subconscious (to the general effect that this was no time to dawdle), Charlie Moon’s boot was heavy on the accelerator, and when he rolled down the north grade of Little Elkhorn Pass, the Expedition’s speedometer needle was jittering just below the ninety-mile-per-hour mark. By any sensible measure, this was reckless driving. Officer Jackson would have put a big ticket on him.

  The tribal investigator was about a minute too late to witness the deliberate murder-by-truck of brother lawman Elmer Jackson, and the twisted wreckage of the state-police vehicle at the bottom of the rocky embankment was hidden from Moon’s view. What he did see was the monster pickup ahead of him, rear-ending the classic 1957 Cadillac.

  Without waiting for his mind to consider issues like who or why or what should I do, the Ute’s mind instantly switched to instinct mode. While his right hand found the Ruger .357 Magnum revolver, his right foot pressed the accelerator all the way down, his left hand lowered the driver’s side window, the Columbine Expedition skidded to a broadside stop between the overturned Caddy and Hurricane Hazel—now about sixty yards down the road. The tribal investigator poked the revolver out the window, took aim, fired. As the monster truck approached a blind curve, the first copper-jacketed lead projectile passed through the cab’s rear window, missed the driver’s right ear by inches, shattered the windshield into several thousand shards, went on for a half mile to bury itself deep underneath the pinkish bark of a ninety-year-old ponderosa pine.

  As an astonished (and now stone-deaf) Nicholas Moxon cursed and raged, another lump of lead passed his head to follow the first projectile through an almost-empty windshield frame, a third slug struck the inch-thick steel rear bumper. These shots were followed by others.

  As the huge machine rounded the distant curve and vanished from view, Moon, smoking revolver in hand, sprinted to the wreckage. It took only a heartbeat to take in the scene of the accident. Make that scene of the crime. The upside-down Cadillac had flipped over two and a half times. All four doors had sprung open (as had the trunk), leaving a trail of debris along the highway, which included a spare whitewall tire, a stainless steel Thermos bottle, a woman’s black purse, a small blue pillow, and Scott Parris’s crumpled felt hat. Like Moon’s arrival, the site of the attack was fortuitous. If there had not been a wide spot between the road and the stream—if the state highway department had not removed a jumble of basalt boulders to provide a pull-off where tourists could enjoy the view of the towering canyon walls—Cassandra’s sedan would have impacted the boulders or rolled down the steep, rocky bank into the chill waters of Granite Creek.

  That was the good news. Now for the bad.

  Charlie Moon found his best friend on the ground, one foot pinned under the overturned automobile, groaning, bleeding from both nostrils, left arm snapped just above the elbow. The Ute knelt by the sandy-haired white man, pressed a thumb on Parris’s right wrist. The pulse was erratic. “Scott—talk to me.”

  Scott Parris blinked bloody eyes. “Charlie?”

  “It’s me, pardner.”

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody rammed you.”

  A puzzled frown. “I…heard shots.”

  “That was me.”

  Parris’s lips parted in a ghastly smile, a chuckle pumped scarlet liquid over his lips. “You shot at somebody for reckless driving?”

  “Damn right I did.” Moon tried to grin. “The rascal tossed a candy-bar wrapper onto the highway.”

  “Well, that makes it all right.” A groan. “Did you nail the miserable litterbug?”

  “I put some holes in his truck.” Moon blinked away the tears. “But he got away.”

  A cough. More blood. Parris’s head lolled to one side. “Charlie…Charlie…”

  Moon picked up a limp hand. “I’m here, pardner.” Oh,

  God—please don’t let him die!

  “I think I’m…finished.”

  The shouted “No!” caught in the Ute’s throat, hit the air as a strangled croak.

  Parris gripped the Indian’s hand. “Don’t leave me, buddy.”

  “I won’t.” Hell will freeze over first.

  Hell was determined to have the last word on the matter.

  They heard the rumble of an engine. Big engine. The hum of tires. Big tires.

  The Ute looked down the highway, barely able to believe it. He’s coming back.

  He was. Hearing nothing but the awful roaring in his skull, staring through the empty place where Hurricane Hazel’s windshield had recently been, Nicholas Moxon addressed his dead passenger in a comradely tone, as if the murdered man were a trusted accomplice. “We can’t run, Tiger. The shooter’s probably another cop. He’ll call in a report and they’ll pick us up a few minutes after I ditch our truck.” He worked the clutch, shifted down to second gear. “Our only option is to finish this guy off—then, we’ve got a good chance of getting away.” As he came closer, Moxon squinted at the tall, dark form who had—as all men must—taken his position. There’s no turning back now. But as the sight of the tribal investigator was focused more finely on his retinas, Moxon eased up on the accelerator. I’m sure I’ve seen that guy somewhere. He pondered the prickly situation.

  Charlie Moon was standing by his friend. So close that one of his boot heels touched Scott Parris’s arm. So close that he could hear the injured man’s rattling breaths. Long arms straight out, the tribal investigator held the heavy six-shooter in both hands, looked down the black barrel at the man behind the wheel, recognized Nicholas Moxon. I’ll wait till he’s so close I can put one right between his eyes. His nostrils picked up the scent of gun smoke. Actual gun smoke. An unsettling thought occurred to the lawman, who had not reloaded his revolver. How many times did I shoot? Moon counted off. Came up with the number. Which rhymed with “fix,” which was what he found himself in. Well, ain’t this one helluva note. For the best poker player in sixteen counties and for the best friend a man would ever have, there was only one thing to do. Bluff. Moon estimated his chance of pulling it off. Recalled the chilling phrase snowball in hell. An astute observer would have concluded that the Ute did not have to die. Only yards away, there was a pile of basalt boulders that had been bulldozed from the scenic stop. A little farther away, the steep riverbank. But taking cover—abandoning his fallen friend—never entered Moon’s mind. Here he was. Here he would stay.

  A kindly motorist, heading north toward Granite Creek, gaped as she spotted the overturned Cadillac, was about to stop and offer assistance when she saw the tall, thin, grim-faced man with the big gun in his hand. And the huge pickup. And decided to pass. But not between them. The sensible woman braked, made a tight U-turn, stepped on the gas.

  The gray-
haired lady and her brand-new Subaru might as well have been invisible; neither Moxon nor Moon took the least notice. This time, this place, belonged entirely to them.

  Minutes later, when the tourist from Little Rock, Arkansas, was out of the canyon, she would place a 911 call, report a bad car accident and there was this man with a gun who looked like he was just itchin’ to shoot another fella if he as much as said ‘howdy’ so I got outta there and called you soon as my cell phone picked up a signal but I’m on Roam so I don’t aim to talk too long because last time I did them telephone-company bloodsuckers charged me nine dollars a minute.…

  Two GCPD black-and-whites would respond pronto. For all the good it would do.

  Mr. Nicholas Moxon, who was heading upgrade, had been barely twenty yards away when he allowed the monster truck to slow—almost to a stop. The driver frowned at his skinny adversary. He’s waiting for me to get so close he can’t miss. His choices were elegantly simple. I can make a run at him, duck behind the dashboard, hope he misses. But this guy knows how to shoot. Deep breath inhaled, the brain’s oxygen replenished to consider the sensible alternative. Or, I could back off, ditch the truck a couple of miles down the road, hike back to town. I’d have at least a slim chance of getting away.

  Hmmm. Double hmmm.

  Moxon glared at the man with the pistol.

  The Ute glared back. Knew what the bald white man was thinking. Charlie Moon grinned. Cocked the empty pistol.

  Moxon was impressed. This is a sure-enough game customer. It’s a wonder he hasn’t already taken a pop at me. If I were in his place, I would’ve—Like the approaching thunderstorm’s first stroke of lightning, the sudden clarity startled him. If he didn’t take time to reload, his pistol may only have a couple of cartridges left in the chamber. Or maybe only one. His heart raced. Or none!

  Charlie Moon watched the bald man’s lips split into a triumphant grin. He knows.

  The truck driver saluted his worthy opponent. With an index finger.

  The Ute heard the big engine rumble. Watched the truck surge forward. Hoped against hope. Maybe I counted wrong. He tightened his finger on the trigger. Waited until the man’s face had filled his narrowed field of vision—pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Well, this is it.

  It was.

  The first hollow-point passed through Moxon’s throat, lodged flatly in his spine.

  The second entered the driver’s left eye socket, liquefied half his brain.

  The third missed.

  Not to worry. This was one of those occasions where two out of three was good enough.

  Nicholas Moxon’s corpse slumped forward onto the steering wheel.

  Hurricane Hazel veered sharply to the left, caromed off the heap of boulders, rolled down the steep bank, crashed thunderously into the rushing waters, where Moxon’s blood mixed with Elmer Jackson’s.

  Charlie Moon looked down at his friend.

  Parris had raised himself on his good elbow. The .38 Smith & Wesson was in his left hand, his blood-soaked face split in a hideously brutal, marvelously happy grin. “I got the bastard!”

  “There was no need, I already had him in my sights.” Moon stuck the impotent pistol under his belt. “But it’s just like you—grabbing all the credit for yourself.” The Ute’s expression hinted of mild disapproval. “Besides, you was supposed to be cashing in your chips.” Thank you, God. I owe you a big one.

  Reminded of this grim fact, Parris relaxed, rolled over on to his back. “I was about to cross that River, all right. But I figured if I leave ol’ Charlie Moon to take care of business, he’s bound to mess things up.”

  Again, the Ute knelt by his friend. “I was about to take him out.”

  “Ha!” The small revolver slipped from Parris’s grip. “I may be bunged up some—but I can count to six.”

  Moon let that pass. And now that things had settled down some, he remembered that there was a second passenger.

  Nineteen fifty-seven Cadillacs did not come equipped with seat belts. Cassandra Spencer, who had been thrown clear, was several paces from the wreckage, wedged between a black basalt boulder and a sturdy piñon. The psychic’s eyes were wide open, staring at the unseen. The tribal investigator put a thumb under her jawbone, felt a weak, intermittent pulse. Cassandra was breathing, but when she exhaled, frothy blood bubbled between her lips.

  Moon frowned, shook his head. She won’t last long.

  From somewhere to the north, the hopeful wail of the siren’s song. Help was coming. Granite Creek police trained in first aid. Close behind, EMTs with oxygen, bandages, defibrillators, miraculous medications—all the assistance modern technology can provide to pull the dying back from death.

  Then, something else. Something altogether other. No, do not ask. The how and why are hidden from us mortals. Some will assume that Charlie Moon’s perception was colored by symbols of his Catholic upbringing. Again, we do not know. What can be said with certainty is that the Ute felt a definite presence. Something infinitely more real than himself. Small, at first. Unobtrusive. But it grew quickly. Soon, all about him, a low rumbling, as if the whole creation trembled. A sudden rush of chill wind took his breath away. Though his body was rigid, his senses were extraordinarily acute. For the duration, he was a witness—and an advocate.

  Watch! It cometh upon us—that deepest of Mysteries.

  Cosmic accounts to be settled, credits made, debts paid, justice satisfied.

  Her life-book is read. On each side, the weights accumulate.

  From the saints, mournful sighs, urgent pleas.

  From hellish Darkness, gleeful accusations!

  Alas, the scale is fearfully unbalanced.

  From the Eternal, cometh judgment.

  Exultant shouts from the Black Pit, loud claims of ownership.

  But wait—the accused pleads for mercy.

  Silently, the tribal investigator prays.

  From the Light, a murmuring of many voices.

  Utterly desperate, she calls upon that Name.

  Silence.

  Then—a small ripping, a sudden unzipping…

  An ear of corn being pulled from the husk?

  Aha! Look—the spirit separates itself from the flesh.

  Cassandra is going…

  Going…

  Charlie Moon watches her go—

  Gone!

  The witness watches the hammer fall—hears the thunder roll!

  But where goeth the wretched soul?

  Why, to the High Bidder.

  The price?

  Sangre de Cristo.

  The Blood of Christ

  Forty-Two

  Nine Days Later

  Charlie Moon burst through the street-level entrance to the Granite Creek Police Department, gave Senior Dispatcher Clara Tavishuts (a fellow Ute) a salute, bounded up the stairs three steps at a time to the second floor. Grinning from one ear to the other (and back) he strode through the door marked CHIEF OF POLICE, boomed a big laugh at the grumpy-faced fellow seated behind the desk.

  Scott Parris’s scowl edged up one notch on the Cantankerous Scale, making deep furrows in his brow.

  Moon was in a backslapping mood, but restrained himself.

  Granite Creek’s top cop was not feeling tip-top—only a few hours out of the hospital, he was hurting from a broken left ulna, five fractured ribs, and the corrosive knowledge that he had not been able to protect Cassandra Spencer from the onslaught of her murderous partner. The almost-healed scar that traced an ugly arc from the corner of his left eye down to the hinge of his prominent jaw turned from shocking pink to angry crimson. Unaware of the communicative effect of these colorful visual displays, he grunted and mumbled, “What’s so damn funny?”

  Counting off fingers, Moon went down the list: “Peanuts comic strips. Dave Barry. And the Department of Agriculture’s latest bulletin on how to raise a hundred head of llamas on ten acres of dry-land prairie.” He pointed at Parris. “But if you figure I’m laughing on ac
count of a sudden attack of mirth, you are way off the mark.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes you am—I laugh because I’m happy.”

  Parris barely suppressed a snort. “What about?”

  “Lots of things.”

  The injured man grimaced at a sudden pain. “Gimme a f’r instance.”

  “Well, take today, f’r instance.” The rancher spread his arms to encompass the numerous blessings. “A quarter inch of rain on the south thirty sections. How the sun came up over the Buckhorn Range. A fine breakfast of sugar-cured Virginia ham, scrambled eggs, sweet black coffee. The way the air smells like lightning’s about to strike—and so crisp you could slice off a piece with your pocket knife.” Moon assumed a properly earnest expression. “But most of all, I’m happy to see my buddy forked-end down. And I’m glad I don’t have to visit you every day of the week, bringing you chocolate candy imported all the way from Germany and fresh-cut flowers to sniff and fuzzy toys to play with and brand-new magazines to read and other expensive stuff such as even a prosperous rancher like myself can barely afford.”

  The patient had appreciated the reading material and the hollowed-out giraffe that (what would they think of next!) could be worn as a hat. Which, late one evening, long after lights-out, when the hallway did not pitter-pat with the sound of nurses’ rubber-soled shoes, he did. Wear the giraffe as a hat, that is. “You never brought me no candy or flowers.”

  “Sure I did, pard. But I gave ’em to that pretty little redheaded nurse who took to calling me sweetie and darling and liked to take me by the hand and lead me down the hall to your room like I couldn’t remember where it was at.”