The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  THE CHIEF of police thumbed the Pause button, shook his head as he spoke to the wall. “I am always saying it, and I’ll say it again—with some training, Charlie Moon would’ve made a fair-to-middling police detective. But he is probably better off raising beef.”

  The Ute raised his coffee cup to salute this observation. “Thank you and amen.”

  Scott Parris checked his wristwatch. “During our brief intermission, you will have precisely ten seconds to gloat.”

  Charlie Moon had barely heard his friend’s voice. The woman had slipped back into his consciousness. He wondered where she was right now. What she was doing. And…Does she ever think of me?

  AT THAT very moment, the object of the lonely Ute’s thoughts was in Harford County, Maryland. She was standing on the grassy bank of the Little Gunpowder. A warm flower-scented breeze skipped over patches of pink lady’s slipper and wild columbine, brushed through leafy branches of hickory and oak, caressed the woman’s dark hair, tossed the blue cotton skirt about her knees. Miss James was remembering the man who had named a lovely alpine lake after her. I was a fool, and weak. I should never have left him. The lovely lady stooped to pick up a stone. The plum-sized lump was deep red, veined with blue—and heavy as her heart. She tossed it into the water. Through eyes moist with tears, she watched concentric waves blossom away from the splash. But I am not so foolish now. And every day, I grow stronger. She smiled at the woman on the surface of the stream, made her reflection a solemn promise. As soon as I am able, I will go back to Charlie.

  The rippling doppelgänger did not return the smile. But will he want you?

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  THE LADYSMITH

  Unnverved by the Ute’s peculiar silence, Parris restarted the videotape.

  THE FED turned a page on his legal pad. “Mr. Navarone, I have a few questions to ask you.”

  The Apache shot a sideways glance at his lawyer, got the go-ahead nod.

  “First, did Mr. Eduardo Ganado take the firearm stolen from Mr. Gourd Rattle’s vehicle to the home and business of Mr. Ralph Briggs with the intent of causing bodily harm to Mr. Briggs?”

  Defense counsel’s response was predictable and immediate: “Object. My client has no way of knowing what Mr. Ganado’s intent may have been.”

  The Justice Department attorney had given it his best shot. “Mr. Navarone, please tell us what you know about the shooting of Mr. Briggs.”

  “Well, like you already know—I was in the Ute jail in Ignacio when it happened. But a couple of days before the shooting, Eddie stops by to visit me and I tell him—”

  The federal attorney interrupted. “For the record—this was Mr. Ganado’s first visit to you after you were arrested at the roadblock?”

  “Sure. Eddie don’t dare show up at the jail till he gets that job working for my lawyer—but he wants to get me out of the jug soon as he can.”

  “What was the big hurry?”

  “It was like this—while I’m in the Ute jail, Eddie tries to get his hair off of the engine belts and pulleys in Jake’s Dodge van. But it ain’t no use, some of it is stuck tight. And cleaning off Eddie’s blood is lots harder than we’d thought. So Eddie figures he’ll have to burn the van, but he’ll have to take it a long way from his place so as not to raise any suspicions. But if he does that, he won’t have any way to get back home except maybe thumb a ride. Poor ol’ Eddie is still crippled up from his fall in Snake Canyon; what he needs is somebody to drive another car to where he’ll burn the van, so he’ll have a ride back home. But the only person he can trust to do that is me, and I’m in the Ute lockup in Ignacio. Also, Eddie thinks I’ve still got the key to the van.”

  Sour Face allowed himself a small smile. “And Mr. Ganado thought it unwise to pay his partner in crime a visit in jail?”

  “Sure—Eddie don’t want the cops to make a connection between him and me. But one night when he’s looking at the newspaper, Eddie sees this Durango lawyer’s employment ad, and he comes up with a plan.” The Apache smirked. “Eddie knows from talking to my brother Ned that this same lawyer is representing me—and she’s also looking to hire a legal aide. The ad says she needs someone who’s qualified to work with the local Native American population. Next day, Eddie shows up, pitches her a big line about what a hard worker he is, how many Indians he knows—and just like that he gets the job. This gives him a perfect excuse to visit me in the Ute jail, which he does right away. When Eddie tells me how he’s stuck with Gourd Rattle’s van, I says, ‘I’d like to help you, pal—but there’s no telling when I’ll get outta jail.’ And I also tell Eddie about how I called Briggs about an hour before I got stopped at that roadblock and how Briggs has flat-out refused to act as middleman between me and the Cassidys, and even threatened to put the cops on me.” He glanced at his attorney, got a warning look. “We are worried about that feisty junk dealer, so I tell Eddie to go talk to that tall, skinny Ute cop—Charlie Moon—see if he’ll testify that Wolfe has roughed me up. Well, from what Eddie knows of Charlie Moon, he don’t think it’ll work. But he don’t have no better idea, so he drives up to the Columbine Ranch and catches Moon just as he’s leaving. And Eddie was right: Moon won’t buy what he’s selling. But while Eddie is talking to him, that Ute cop gets a telephone call—from Ralph Briggs!” Felix Navarone’s eyes burned with hatred. “Briggs is setting up a meet with Moon so they can talk about the Cassidy heist. Eddie figures that two-faced junk dealer is gonna rat me out to the Ute, and Eddie knows that if I go to the joint, he’ll go with me. Eddie showed up that night to shoot the both of ’em—Briggs and the Ute. Eddie had it all worked out—he brought along the pistol we found in Gourd Rattle’s van. He was able to nail Briggs with the first shot, but some crazy woman starts screeching and that big Ute comes crashing through the window like getting shot is the last thing on his mind. Eddie drops Jake’s .22 pistol like he’d planned to do—and manages to slip away in the dark and get back to his car.”

  THE CHIEF of police shut off the tape, turned to the tribal investigator. I wonder if he’s come back from wherever he was. “You want to watch any more of it?”

  “Maybe later,” Moon said. “What does Felix Navarone have to say about the run-in with Jim Wolfe?”

  Parris worked his way through a written transcript of the confession. “Here it is.” He ran his finger down the page, refreshed his memory. “On the afternoon Navarone is sprung from the Ute jail, he heads out to Eddie Ganado’s place to help his buddy get rid of the Gourd Rattle vehicle. The plan is they’ll hot-wire the van, Ganado will drive it to some remote spot. Navarone will be following his partner. Soon as they torch the van, they’ll hightail it back to Ganado’s place. But they realize that taking the stolen vehicle out on a public road is fairly risky—even in the middle of the night. So they decide to scout out an out-of-the-way location for the big event. Kind of a dry run. Felix Navarone cranks up his old Chevy pickup, and with Eddie Ganado on the seat beside him they head off into the night. And what do you know—they haven’t gone but a few miles when Eddie looks in his rearview mirror, thinks he sees a car pull out of some brush and hang a tail on him. He’s not sure, because there are no headlights. Ganado turns around, watches until they hit a patch of moonlight—tells Navarone it looks like a Subaru. Navarone says that could be Wolfe’s car, and decides to take this opportunity to deal with Wolfe once and for good. So he putt-putts along while Wolfe follows, then makes a turn toward Butterfield Mesa. Navarone parks his pickup in plain sight, and him and Ganado get out and split up—waiting for the SUPD cop to play out his hand. It’s Eddie Ganado that eventually spots Wolfe—which turns out to be serious bad luck for the Navajo. Officer Wolfe empties his pistol into Ganado, and hides his body under a pile of rocks. But it’s pretty dark and Wolfe has shot most of Ganado’s face off—he’s apparently convinced he’s killed Felix Navarone. At least that’s what the Apache says. He claims he heard Wolfe call the dead man ‘Navarone.’”

  Moon interrupted the monologue. “Cou
ld I make a guess?”

  Parris looked up from the transcript. “As long as it don’t cost me anything.”

  “Here’s how I see it—after Wolfe is gone, Felix Navarone removes the stones, stuffs Eddie Ganado’s body in the back of his old pickup, drives back to Ganado’s place, transfers the Navajo’s remains to the Gourd Rattle van, which is locked up in Ganado’s garage. After this, maybe Navarone heads for Pagosa and the nice little place he shares with his kindly brother Ned.”

  Parris nodded. “That’s close enough.” He found his place in the written account of the confession. “Later on, Navarone claims he drove over to Ignacio, parked down the street from Jim Wolfe’s apartment building. Late at night, he took a look through Wolfe’s apartment window. Risky thing to do—it’s a wonder Wolfe didn’t shoot him.”

  Moon shook his head. “There’s no point shooting a man you’ve already filled full of holes and buried under a big pile of rocks. You expect him to be sufficiently dead already.”

  “Good point,” Parris said. “Poor fella must’ve thought he’d seen the Apache’s ghost.”

  “That’s why Wolfe went to my aunt’s home—to get some corpse powder to sprinkle on the body. But when Wolfe shows up where he’d left the body under the rocks, there’s nothing there.”

  Parris shook his head at the image. “Boy—can’t blame the poor bugger for being spooked!”

  “Did Felix Navarone admit to murdering Wolfe—and putting his body in Ganado’s grave?”

  “Call it voluntary manslaughter,” Parris said. “Navarone claimed he went back again—to ‘have a talk’ with Wolfe.” The GCPD chief of police snorted at this self-serving fabrication. “According to the Apache’s version of the story, he thought it would be too risky to walk right up and knock on Wolfe’s apartment door, so he needed to work out a way to get Wolfe to come outside without knowing who was there. And Navarone came up with something fairly clever. You’d never guess what he did.”

  Moon shook his head. “I know what you’re up to.”

  Parris’s face was a gilt-framed picture of innocence. “What?”

  “You’re trying to get your money back. You hope you can suck me into another bet.”

  “I wouldn’t even think of such a thing.” Parris’s blue eyes twinkled. “But if you want to take a guess without risking any cash—go ahead. Give it a shot.”

  “You sure you want me to?”

  “Sure. But if you guess right, it’ll give me a bad case of heartburn.”

  “Pardner, I would not want you to suffer severe gastric distress on account of me.”

  Parris looked out the window. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

  “Okay, here’s my guess. Felix Navarone banged on Jim Wolfe’s Subaru, which set off the theft alarm, which makes the horn go toot-toot-toot. The apartment manager heard the horn, and she heard Wolfe’s door bang when he came out with his pistol in his hand. Wolfe didn’t see anybody around his car, probably figured it was some dumb kid who’d caused the nighttime commotion. About the time he got into his Subaru to reset the alarm, Navarone must’ve slipped up with a rock in his hand, conked him on the head hard enough to crush his skull. Navarone stashes the dead cop in the back of his fifty-seven Chevy pickup, hauls the body out to Butterfield Mesa—right to the spot where Wolfe had buried Ganado—sticks Wolfe’s pistol barrel into his mouth and covers him up with rocks.”

  Scott Parris found a bottle in his desk, downed a couple of Tums.

  “Sorry,” the Ute said.

  “You were only partly right.” Parris tried to smirk, looked like someone who had just swallowed a tablespoon of castor oil. “Navarone did not conk Wolfe with a rock—he hit him with a brick.”

  “Well, that sure blows my notion all the way to Kingdom Come.” Moon watched his friend crunch on a third antacid tablet. “This really bothers me.”

  Parris shot the Ute a barbed look. “Navarone using a brick?”

  “Besides that.”

  “What?”

  “For his so-called confession,” Moon said, “Felix Navarone—who has committed a cold-blooded, premeditated murder—gets off with fifteen years. And if he builds up enough good time, he could walk in ten.”

  “It is the American Way of Justice, my friend.” Parris put the Tums bottle into a desk drawer. “Something else nags at me. I can understand why Felix Navarone buried Mr. Gourd Rattle in a grave the dead man had dug himself—the hole in the ground was right at hand, so it was a convenient thing to do. What I can’t figure out is why Navarone would go to all the trouble and risk to transport Jim Wolfe’s body to Butterfield Mesa, just to stash him in the same spot where Wolfe had piled some rocks over Eddie Ganado.”

  Moon nodded. “Did Felix offer any explanation?”

  Parris belched, felt marginally better. “Navarone’s attorney claims her Native American client was performing an old Apache cultural practice. According to her, Felix Navarone was ‘closing the circle’ on his enemy.” Whatever that means.

  Moon was beginning to think about hearth and home. “That sounds like something Navarone cooked up for his lawyer.”

  Parris cocked an eye at the Ute. “So you don’t buy it?”

  “Not for two cents on the dollar. My guess is that Felix Navarone put Jim Wolfe’s body in Ganado’s grave because it struck him as a hilarious thing to do.” Moon allowed himself a thin smile. “Some of those Apaches have a peculiar sense of humor.”

  Parris consulted his watch. “Okay if we take a break now?”

  “Fine with me.” The lanky Ute got up to stretch.

  Taking care not to be noticed, Parris pressed the buzzer button on his intercom. In response, a yellow light on the panel blinked twice. The chief of GCPD scooped up a handful of papers. “Uh—I got some things to do down the hall, Charlie. I’ll be back before you know it.” He hurried away, closing the door behind him.

  The Ute had not missed his friend’s monkeying around with the desk intercom station—or Scott Parris’s reluctance to say who had brought the videotape all the way from Denver this morning. Charlie Moon stood with his arms folded across his chest, listening with great interest to the silence. Presently, he heard faint creaks as someone walked up the stairs outside the chief’s office. The door opened silently on oiled hinges.

  Standing with his back to the door, the tribal investigator knew who it was. He tensed. “Go ahead. Do it.”

  The newcomer stared at the tall man. Reached out. Ran a pointy fingernail down his spine.

  Charlie Moon turned.

  Special Agent McTeague smiled. “How was that?”

  He smiled back. “Lila Mae, you do a pretty mean scratch.”

  SCOTT PARRIS approached his office. Seems awful quiet—maybe they’ve gone. He turned the knob, looked through a crack in the door. The chief of the Granite Creek Police Department felt cheated. I’ve been working with the feds for a good twelve years now, and I like to think I’ve done a pretty good job. Two or three times I’ve got a slap on the back or a “Way to go, Scott.” But in all that time, no FBI agent has ever hugged and kissed me.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  THE SACRAMENT

  Daisy Perika was seated on an uncomfortable chair in the rectory parlor. Preferring to avoid the priest’s penetrating gaze, the Ute elder looked down at the weak cup of coffee in her hand. “So, how are your retirement plans going?”

  Father Raes Delfino sipped at a cup of tea sweetened with honey. “I am reliably informed that the bishop has found a replacement.”

  Daisy did not inquire about the new priest because she did not care to know a thing about him. It would be some enthusiastic young smart Aleck, all filled up with big long words and years of book learning. The old woman tried to make her next question sound like small talk. The trembling voice betrayed her. “Have you found a place to live?”

  The Jesuit nodded.

  Daisy shot him an accusing look. “It’ll be a long ways off, I expect.”

  Probably not far enou
gh. There was a merry twinkle in the cleric’s eyes. “Shortly before I’m ready to make my move, I will pay you a call. Tell you everything.”

  The cantankerous woman shrugged, as if she did not care where he went.

  “Daisy, I have known you for quite a long time. I do not believe you are here to discuss my retirement plans.”

  She squirmed in the chair. “Well—there is this one thing.”

  Aha. “And what would that be?”

  The old woman grimaced. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been…to confession.”

  Father Raes almost spilled his spicy-sweet tea. He set the translucent china cup on a matching saucer. Only last year, Charlie Moon had requested that holy sacrament—and for a most peculiar reason. And now Daisy. Will God’s wonders never cease? The cleric found his tongue. “Yes. I suppose it has been. A long time, I mean.”

  Daisy strained with the mental calculation. “It was way back when old Father What’s-his-name was here—the one who wheezed when he talked and had a big red mole on his nose. And Mole Nose was here before Father Martinez, who was still a couple of Fathers before you.” She nodded to agree with this vague assessment. “And it wasn’t long after my third husband died, so it must’ve been sometime around 1962.” She shifted in the chair again, grunted. “Let’s get to it.”

  The holy man looked to heaven for mercy. When there was no response, Father Raes Delfino made a halfhearted attempt at escape. “Perhaps you would prefer to wait until my replacement arrives.”

  The repentant woman shook her head. “Got to be right now.” The old war-horse gave him a defiant look. “But I won’t go into that little closet—it gives me the spooks.”