The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  THE UNEXPECTED

  The officers of the law approached the cairn of smooth stones with due caution, but there was scant evidence of footprints on the rocky surface. In a hand-sized spot of sand there was a faint imprint of a boot heel, which might have been left the previous day by either Charlie Moon or Officer Wolfe. It might, of course, be the partial footprint of a third person who had been in this remote spot more recently. But who? An eccentric passerby who harbored an obsessive drive to create order out of disorder—to make a neat pile of rocks from those that had been scattered by Jim Wolfe in his inexplicable panic?

  There was, at the moment, a more pressing issue.

  While Charlie Moon and Wallace Whitehorse watched, the methodical federal officers—not given to musing about the possibilities—proceeded to uncover the truth.

  Special Agent McTeague produced a fresh pair of latex gloves from one of the oversized pockets on her jumpsuit. Having donned these essential tools of the forensics specialist, the lady went about her task with quiet efficiency, removing stones one by one.

  Stanley Newman stood close-by with his digital camera, making certain the Bureau had sequential graphics to record this gradual process of uncovering something or other.

  Wallace Whitehorse leaned toward Moon. “Whatta you think—will there be somethin’ under those rocks?”

  Not wishing to converse with the humorless Northern Cheyenne, the Ute shrugged under his denim jacket. Charlie Moon had already been dead wrong when he had predicted they would find nothing but a scattering of stones. But it made no sense that someone had gone to the trouble to come out here several miles past nowhere—just to cover up nothing. Moon turned the facts he had upside down and inside out, rotated the ensemble around its axis. In whatever dimension he viewed the construction, he came up empty. But I must’ve missed something yesterday evening.

  A trio of ravens sat on a juniper, gawking and squawking at the human beings.

  McTeague paused to examine a greenish lump of stone. She gave Newman a look.

  He squatted. “What you got?”

  She held the sample under his nose.

  Newman squinted at what looked like black varnish on the glossy rock. “Blood?”

  McTeague nodded, bagged the potential evidence.

  Moon watched the work proceed, feeling more than a little incompetent. I should’ve looked for blood on the rocks.

  Special Agent McTeague pried up a large, flat stone. Gasped.

  Stanley Newman made a horrible grimace.

  The Indians drew near for a closer look. There were precisely two things to see.

  A dead man’s head.

  A Ruger .357 Magnum revolver.

  A pale face looked up at them. The pistol barrel had been jammed deep into the corpse’s throat.

  SUPD chief of police Wallace Whitehorse found his voice. “It’s Officer Wolfe. And that looks like his service revolver.” He felt his legs tremble, leaned against a piñon snag.

  To preserve the site for the human remains experts, Special Agent McTeague placed the flat stone back over the face of the corpse.

  Newman asked Whitehorse to post a pair of uniforms at the grave site until a complete forensics team could be assembled, then gave Charlie Moon a flinty look. “You absolutely one hundred percent sure there wasn’t a body here yesterday?”

  “I’m sure.” Moon stared at the pile of stones. “But there’s something you may want to consider.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Before somebody put Jim Wolfe there, there might’ve been another dead body under those rocks.”

  The senior FBI agent started to speak but did not.

  “When your experts check for traces of blood,” Moon added, “you might want to ask them to be on the lookout for two types—”

  Newman threw his hands in the air. “One dead cop ain’t enough. There’s got to be another corpse.” The fed shook his head. “I don’t suppose there’s a relevant fact hiding somewhere behind this speculation?”

  The tribal investigator spoke softly. “Stan, I’m sure Jim Wolfe came here to sprinkle corpse powder on somebody he’d put under the stones.”

  Newman snorted. “Corpse powder. Disappearing bodies. I don’t buy it.”

  “I know it sounds pretty strange,” Moon said, “but odds are—” Odds. Unintentionally, the Ute had said the magic word.

  Newman’s mouth split into a hungry-hyena grin. “Okay, Charlie. You’re telling me forensics will find evidence of two corpses. But how sure are you?”

  Moon stared. “What do you mean?”

  Newman patted the wallet in his hip pocket. “Are you willing to put your money where your mouth is?”

  It was a reflex action. Seeing McTeague give her partner a startled look, Moon instinctively set the hook: “Well, Stan—I s’pose I really shouldn’t let myself get tempted into making any more bets. You know how I’ve been trying to get over my bad habit and—”

  Annoyed half to death and bone-weary from the day’s grim labors, Newman could not deal with this nonsensical drivel. He yelled, “What are you talking about?”

  As one who finds himself the object of public humiliation, Moon looked at his boots. “I’ve been trying to cut back on my gambling.”

  “You—quit making bets? That’s a laugh.” To emphasize this assertion, he added, “Haw-haw.”

  “It is not funny!” McTeague snapped.

  Special Agent Stanley Newman gawked at his partner. “What?”

  “Compulsive gambling is a serious disorder.” She pointed at Moon, who presented his best poker face. “You should be helping this poor man, not making sport of his…his disability.”

  Newman took this assault with surprising grace. “Well, I didn’t exactly mean to—”

  Special Agent McTeague took Moon by the arm. Looked up at his innocent-as-a-newborn-babe expression. “Charlie, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you free on Thursday evening?”

  “Uh—well, I guess could be. Sure.”

  “Could you pick me up at six?”

  Now the grin had to come out. “I’d be proud to.” To properly punctuate this happy affirmation, he tipped his dusty Stetson.

  “I want you to take me somewhere nice.” She flashed him a smile that sizzled. “For a milk shake.”

  “The old-fashioned kind, with lots of vanilla ice cream?”

  “Certainly. And gooey chocolate syrup. And chopped nuts.”

  “After that, could we go to a picture show?”

  “If it’s a tragic romance. I want to see something that’ll make me cry.”

  “I promise to have you home by ten sharp.”

  “If you must.”

  Stanley Newman watched them walk away—into the crimson sunset, no less. He heard Wallace Whitehorse clear his throat. Say something corny.

  “They make a nice-looking couple, don’t you think?”

  The fed made an ugly face. But underneath Newman’s feigned expression, there was this happy thought: That was so easy. Ol’ Charlie even helped me. He is such a sap.

  WHEN THEY were far enough away not to be overheard, Moon spoke to the pretty woman. “That was real nice of you—what you did for me back there. But you don’t have to worry, I won’t hold you to it.”

  McTeague squeezed his arm. “Oh yes you will.”

  “I will?”

  “You will show up at my place, Charlie Moon. Thursday, six o’clock sharp.” She blinked the Big Violets at him. “Or I will be very, very annoyed.”

  This was an unexpected complication. Miss James was somewhere back East. It was a thousand-to-one shot that she would ever come back to Colorado. Even so, he had an obligation to wait for a while for the bird in the bush. But not forever. And this bird in the hand was armed and dangerous. “Well,” the Ute said, “we sure wouldn’t want you to be annoyed.”

  “No,” she said. “We would not.”

  SPECIAL AGENT Stanley Newman p
unched in the Granite Creek number. After the customary greetings were exchanged, and the grisly discovery of Officer Wolfe’s corpse was described in some detail, Newman got to the reason for the telephone call. “And you’re gonna love this—the Ute and Long Tall Lila Mae are practically an item.”

  “Stan, you are the Man.”

  “You are right about that. Poor ol’ Charlie had no idea I was setting him up with McTeague. And my partner—well, that kid’s so green she bleeds chlorophyll.”

  “I love it.”

  “And get this—it was McTeague that asked Charlie for the date!”

  The man on the other end of the line laughed. “This plan was just brilliant.”

  “Well, you’d naturally think so—it was mostly your idea to steer Charlie toward a new girlfriend.” Newman paused. “There is a downside.”

  “Break it to me easy.”

  “It’s gonna cost us two hundred and fifty bucks apiece.”

  There was a slight hesitation. “But it’ll be worth every penny.”

  Newman tried to sound nonchalant. “You’re right about that.”

  There was a ring of hope in the other man’s voice. “You think those two might hit it off?”

  “Hey, Moon and McTeague are made for each other.” The FBI agent grinned. The woman is tall enough to bite a giraffe on the ear.

  The Granite Creek chief of police’s smile could be heard in his voice: “Once Charlie’s got himself a new lady, he’ll quit stewing about the one that’s dumped him.”

  “You said it—we did the right thing for our old buddy.” And Charlie, being the sort of bumpus he is, will help his new sweetie solve the Gourd Rattle disappearance and the Wolfe homicide. Which will help me get promoted right out of Indian country and back into the real world.

  “Thanks for the call, Stan.”

  “You’re welcome. G’night, Scott.”

  CHARLIE MOON spoke to his aunt about the weather. He told her that some rain was already falling in northern Arizona, how it might slip up into La Plata County.

  He thinks I’m a silly old fool. “It’s late. Now get around to what you called me about, so I can go to bed and get some rest.”

  He said the words he’d been dreading to say: “Officer Wolfe is dead.”

  Daisy Perika clenched the telephone. “What happened?”

  The tribal investigator could not tell his aunt the details of the murder. “I guess his luck ran out.”

  The shaman’s hands turned clammy-cold. The white man had told her his luck depended on a piece of turquoise on the leather string under his shirt—the K’os Largo pendant she had stolen. Now the matukach was dead.

  Shortly before midnight, the weary old sinner went to bed with her guilt.

  Daisy was still awake when the sun came up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE DATE

  Charlie Moon and Lila Mae McTeague strolled slowly along bricked sidewalks, under the leafy branches of maple and oak, through dusky shadows and glowing moonlight. The night air was warm, sweet with the scent of flowers.

  Her braid had been undone. Waves of coal-black locks fell to her waist. She stole a glance at his dark profile. “I liked the movie.”

  “Made you cry, did it?”

  “Oh, when that poor girl died of tuberculosis…” Lila Mae wiped away a fresh tear. “That was just so terribly romantic.”

  Right. Like getting your liver chewed on by a grizzly.

  For a few paces, there were no words.

  Moon cleared his throat. “I’m still waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “You haven’t said a thing about that four-dollar milk shake. It had lots of chocolate syrup. And chopped nuts to boot.”

  And about ten thousand calories. “The milk shake was very nice.”

  A low cloud slipped away, exposing a cosmic pasture blossomed with stars. An insomniac mockingbird trilled a few bars.

  The attractive woman reached out to squeeze his hand. “This is Buttonwood Lane.”

  Charlie Moon realized that they had turned a corner. He took a look around. “You know—I’m fairly sure I’ve walked on this street before.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure—this street where you live.”

  She stopped at a cleft in an aromatic lilac hedge. “This is my house.”

  “Nice place.” He followed her to the porch. “Right now, there’s nowhere I would rather be.”

  Her eyes sparkled in the night. “You are in a whimsical mood.”

  “This is no mood. It is a permanent condition.”

  “Would you like to come inside?”

  He cocked his head. “Is that a trick question?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then I’ll pass.”

  “Then you pass.” She pulled her hand away. “I am moderately impressed.”

  “With my combination of good character and iron self-will?”

  “With the fact that not once all evening have you mentioned homicide, larceny, or even referred to a petty misdemeanor. Imagine—a cop who doesn’t end up talking shop.”

  He looked down at the tall woman’s pretty face. “Now why would I want to do that in the company of a charming lady like yourself?”

  Her blush was but a shadow in the moonlight. “To pick my brain. Find out where the Bureau’s investigation into Officer Wolfe’s murder is going.”

  “Don’t matter to me if it goes to South Dakota by way of Saskatoon.”

  “You don’t fool me one bit, Charlie Moon.”

  “I’d never try, Lila Mae.”

  “Play coy if you want to.” The rangy filly tossed her dark mane. “But you are bound to be just the least bit curious.”

  “Not me. I have a high regard for Uncle Sam’s federal constabulary and their well-deserved reputation to get the job done. If Officer Wolfe is murdered, let the FBI take care of it, says I.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  He pretended to think about it. “As far as I can tell.”

  There was a lengthy silence before McTeague finally spoke. “Officer Wolfe was not shot. He died of a single blow to his left temple. Canonical blunt object. The pistol barrel was probably placed in his mouth as some sort of ritual.”

  Charlie Moon looked off into the infinite darkness.

  “Do you suppose the Cassidy burglary has some connection with Mr. Gourd Rattle’s disappearance—and the murder of Officer Wolfe?”

  He nodded.

  McTeague pressed on: “I am sure that my partner would be grateful for any information or assistance you might provide.”

  No response.

  “Do you dislike Stan Newman?”

  “I don’t dislike him,” Moon said. “He’s almost my favorite FBI agent. In fact, on my list Stan is number two.”

  “But then why—”

  “That is the wrong response.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Who is your most favorite FBI agent?”

  “You mean number one?”

  The swirl of the Milky Way glistened in her eyes. “I do.”

  “It’s a toss-up between Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., and that cute Scully gal.”

  “That was not very nice.”

  “And you, McTeague—you’re number one and a half.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I could see you were fishing for a compliment. It kinda made me feel sorry for you.”

  “Sorry enough to help me solve the Wolfe homicide?”

  He gave her a long, appraising look. “How long do you expect to be assigned to the Durango FBI office?”

  She looked away. “Hard to say. But there’s talk of kicking Stan upstairs.”

  This was news to the tribal investigator. “And if he goes, you’ll stay on as the senior agent in Durango?”

  “If I do a good enough job.” She gave him a moment, then added, “And if I have a good reason to stay.” She waited for a response, got none. He’s still mooning over that James woman. “Good night, Charlie
.”

  After she closed the door, McTeague looked through the curtains.

  The Ute had been swallowed up by the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE FILE

  FBI Special Agent Stanley Newman looked across the government-issue desk at his partner. “So how’re you this fine morning?”

  Agent McTeague did not look up from her work. “Good enough.”

  “Have a nice time with Charlie last night?”

  She turned a page on the Wolfe homicide report. “What I do on my personal time is none of your business.”

  He snorted. “Well, excuse me.”

  “Very well, Stan. You are excused.” Now please go away.

  He grinned at the handsome lady. “Do you know that Charlie has a girlfriend?”

  “If you are referring to the James woman, of course I do.” But she is a former girlfriend. McTeague turned to file the folder. “The lady was waiting in Moon’s car when the antique dealer got shot. Now she’s back East somewhere.”

  “Baltimore.”

  She gave him an odd look. “You have been checking on her?”

  He nodded. “I don’t think she’s coming back to Colorado.”

  Good. McTeague rummaged through her beaded purse, found a platinum compact. “I suppose being present at the shooting of Mr. Briggs must have been terribly traumatic for the poor woman.”

  “And seeing her boyfriend about to get perforated probably didn’t help.” He watched his partner inspect her face in the compact mirror. “Especially because of what happened sometime back.”

  She found a hair that had gone awry, tucked it neatly back into place. “Which was?”

  Newman wore a deadpan expression. “Approximately five years, one month, and six days ago, Miss James witnessed the shooting of her fiancé.”

  McTeague stared at the silvered glass without seeing her startled reflection. “What were the circumstances?”

  Newman’s face was grim. “The fiancé was an off-duty detective, Baltimore PD. One fine day, he went into a pawn shop while she was sitting in his car at the curb. The owner of the establishment spotted the automatic pistol under the detective’s jacket, thought he was about to be robbed for the third time that month, pulled a pistol out of the cash register and shot the off-duty cop five times. Death was instantaneous.”