"And after the juke slides the record back in the stack, then I'm gonna hop a plane, plop my tired behind into one of those cushy first class seats and zip over to Washington where I will spend as much time as I can with Anne. I'm tired of living alone, Charlie." Parris slapped the dashboard so hard it made his palm sting. "Dammit, I feel fantastic! I may even ask Sweet Thing to marry me. She's making enough money for both of us; I could retire and become a bum!"
"You don't never do any useful work, so you're already a bum." Moon replied cheerfully. "But marrying Anne is the only smart idea I've heard from you in a long spell." Moon slowed to a crawl and shifted into four wheel drive. When the mud turned to deep muck, he shifted into low four wheel drive and the squad car groaned as it pulled along at an old man's pace. When they were near the site where Big Ouray's carcass had been discovered, the Ute cut the ignition. He glanced at his companion. "There's not a chance in a thousand we're going to find anything up here, but we'd best go through the motions and put it in a report. Why don't you stay in the car while I have an official look around?"
Parris, who had been entertaining visions of Anne, was experiencing a manic mood swing. No more J. E. Hoover. Lots more Anne. "No way, bub. You gonna slog along in the mud, your pardner slogs along in the mud beside you."
Moon pulled his hat brim down over his forehead. "Suit yourself," the Ute said, and slammed the door.
Parris slogged along behind as Moon led the way through the fringed sage toward the petroglyphs. When they reached the nearly vertical cliff wall, the Ute searched a half-dozen of the lower crevices that would provide decent shelter for a sleepy drunk. There was no sign of Arlo. Parris entertained himself by imagining Anne's reaction when he called. "Oh, darling," she would say, "I'm so thrilled that you're coming. I'll cancel my appointment to interview the First Lady… We'll spend all our days… and nights… together."
Parris was jarred from this optimistic fantasy by a gruff announcement. "He's not where I thought he'd be," Moon said. "Let's go home. If he doesn't turn up in a couple of days, I'll put an all points out."
"As Acting Chief of the Southern Ute Police, I hereby give advance approval to all your sage decisions," Parris said. He slogged along again, following the Ute to the squad car. Parris was opening the door when he spotted something a few yards up the lane. "Wait. Up there." He pointed. "What's that… that white thing under the bush…"
Moon couldn't see the object through the steamy windshield. "You want to check it out?"
Parris felt a sudden feeling of dread sweep over him. "It's probably nothing. A piece of paper."
Moon put the key into the ignition switch. "You won't be satisfied until you find out what it is."
Parris trudged up the road, forcing his feet to make each step. The white object became clearer as he drew near the dwarf oak. It was only a sock. A white cotton sock with two red rings around the ankle. But there was something odd about the shape of the sock. Parris stopped in the middle of the muddy lane.
"I don't like this," he said quietly. Moon didn't hear. "I don't like this!" he yelled.
Moon got out of the Blazer. "What is it?"
"A sock."
"Sock?" Moon's voice was flat. The Ute did not move.
"Doesn't look like an empty sock," Parris yelled. "Looks like it's got a foot in it."
Moon looked down at the mud caked on his boots but didn't answer.
"Did you hear me? I said it's got afoot in it." Parris took one step closer and leaned over to get a better view. "I can see part of a leg!"
The Ute policeman felt the cold to his marrow. Why was
Daisy hiding? Why had she broken a headlamp on Arlo Nightbird's 500SL, then cleaned up the glass?
Parris waited for an eternity. Finally, Moon was at his side. "You're right. It is a sock."
"With a man's foot in it," Parris reminded him. He pointed at the leg to emphasize this significant point.
"Yeah. Hairy leg."
"Way I figure it," Parris said, "there's a whole body attached to that leg."
"I sure hope so," Moon responded earnestly. "Why don't you have a look?"
Parris tried without success to tear his gaze from the hairy leg. "I hereby resign as acting chief of tribal police. You have a look."
"I don't much like to get close to dead bodies," Moon said. "It's kind of a thing with Indians. Bad luck to touch a dead body. Causes soul sickness."
"I was under the impression," Parris reminded him curtly, "that you didn't believe in that sort of thing."
"I don't," the Ute replied solemnly, "but you get sick whether you believe it or not."
Parris moved closer to the bush and pulled back a branch. The first thing he saw was another leg, twisted under the first. This foot was bare. It was several seconds before his brain would fully comprehend the scene burned on his retinas. "Oh no!" He turned away and felt his legs go wobbly.
Moon shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. The cold didn't go away. "Tell me."
Parris cleared his throat, forced himself to answer. "Male. Light olive complexion, dark hair. Maybe fifty to fifty-five. About five-five or six. Flabby."
"Sounds like Arlo Nightbird. Look, I'm sorry I pushed you into checking out the body. I had no idea you had such a thing about viewing a corpse…"
"Wasn't just that," Parris said, "the body's been…" He felt a fresh wave of nausea sweep over his viscera.
"Been what?" Moon knew what the answer would be.
"Castrated," Parris said weakly.
Moon put a massive hand over his eyes. "Dear God."
Parris squinted at the cloud-fingers touching the mesa tops. It did seem to be an appropriate moment for prayer.
The Ute found his voice. "Look at his ankles, Scott."
Parris leaned forward, forcing himself to this task. "I'm looking, Charlie."
"Are there any marks"-the Ute clenched his fists-"like a cord was tied around his ankles?"
Parris's voice was thin. "No. Not that I can see." He turned away from the corpse and studied his friend's face. "You know something you aren't telling me?"
The Ute barely heard Parris's voice; his whole attention was absorbed with that awful vision from the nightmare. A human figure strung upside down from a tree limb. Waiting… waiting to be butchered by the horned beast and his blade of blue fire. Moon had not the least doubt that it was a premonition. Still waiting to be fulfilled. And it would not wait much longer.
But that awaited him in the dark world; in this world of sunshine and cleansing rain there was police work to be done. First, the identification must be made. He clamped his hand on Parris's shoulder. "Does he… does the body… have a turquoise stud in the left earlobe?"
"No way to tell," Parris said.
"You couldn't see his left ear?"
It was a long time before the matukach policeman answered. "Whoever snipped off his balls," Parris whispered, "also took his ears. Both of 'em."
Cain had earned his name.
11
The old shepherd was oblivious to the vast space beneath his dangling feet. Nahum Yacuti sat lightly on the dead pine branch that hung over the canyon wall; his back rested on the scarred trunk that had been stripped of bark by repeated strikes of lightning. He watched the policemen on the canyon floor as they covered Arlo Nightbird's body.
Charlie Moon, having looked at the body, sat down heavily in the squad car. The Ute policeman felt oddly hollow as he watched his matukach friend drive wooden stakes in the dirt lane. Parris strung yellow police-do not cross tape along the stakes, then draped it around the bush that sheltered the mutilated corpse. The Ute silently surveyed the canyon floor, wondering if there had been tracks near the body. Before the rains came and erased such evidence away forever. Why hadn't the killer done this work after the rain, when the soft ground would have preserved a few footprints? Probably because the murderer wasn't stupid. Moon thumbed the plastic button on his radio microphone. "Base, this is three-thirty-nine. You read me, Nancy?"
/>
There was a burp of static as the dispatcher answered. "Read you, Charlie. Signal is weak."
"I'm in a canyon. Don't have line of sight between our antennas." He hesitated. "Call in all patrols, notify the state troopers. We've got us… a situation."
"Will do. What kind of situation?" Nancy's internal antennae didn't need line of sight.
"Found a body in Canon del Espiritu. No positive I.D. on the victim."
"Is it Arlo?"
"I said we don't have a positive I.D.!" He was immediately sorry he had snapped at Nancy. The dispatcher, who knew almost everything worth knowing about Ignacio, had learned that Arlo was missing. "It's a homicide. We'll guard the site until the rest of the troops show up. Contact the BIA police in Cortez. Then call Sam Parker in Denver and ask him to send in some Bureau people. You copy that?"
Nancy hesitated slightly. "We normally call Durango for FBI assistance."
"Call Denver. I say again, Denver! You copy that?"
"Ten-four, Officer Moon. Stand by."
Officer Moon. That was Nancy's way of letting him know that her feelings were hurt. The Ute policeman watched the second hand tick on his Timex Quartz. Three minutes and forty-four seconds, and Nancy's voice returned. "Base to patrol three-thirty-nine. Our fellows are headed for the canyon. Rainwater was at Twin Crossing, checking on some stolen sheep, her ETA is forty minutes. Bignight was at the restaurant at Arboles; he should be there in fifteen minutes. State police should show up in an hour. Haven't been able to raise anybody at BIA."
Moon breathed deeply and answered in a casual tone, as if they were discussing a routine call about a barking dog. "That's good, Nancy. You talk to Parker?"
"Yes, sir." Moon didn't like the sound of this. "Officer Moon" had been a mild reproach. But Nancy never called him "sir." This didn't feel right.
He pressed the mike key. "And?"
"Mr. Parker is sending… somebody. Should arrive pretty quick."
Somebody? Moon braced himself. "Who's Parker sending?" Nancy told him the bad news.
Parris leaned on the door and peered through the open window.
"Well, the body's fenced in. You got help coming?"
"Yeah," Moon shot back, "couple of hours, we'll have a regular circus in the canyon."
Parris glanced over his shoulder at the shrouded remains of Arlo Nightbird. "I assume you notified the Bureau."
"They're sending Hoover." Moon's face was impassive, but he flexed his big hands slowly as if trying to grasp for something. Something solid to hold onto.
"It's his turf," Parris said reasonably, "he runs the Du-rango office till Stan Newman's back to work."
"I kind of hoped Parker might have time to come down himself," Moon said.
Parris was about to respond when he saw something on the mesa top. "Look… up there. What in blazes…"
Moon shielded his eyes with his hand. "Where? What do you see?"
Parris blinked. "Looks like a man… up there sitting on that limb." He pointed to a dead ponderosa on the mesa.
Moon squinted, then produced a pair of binoculars and scanned the crest of the mesa. "What limb?"
"That big dead tree, over the petroglyphs. He's on the second branch from the bottom. Dammit, I don't know why you can't see him."
Moon offered the binoculars to his friend. "Take a look."
Parris peered through the prisms at the blurred image of the pine. "Charlie, you're not looking at the right tree." He adjusted the focus. The form of the man was no longer there. The lawman felt his face blush warm. "Well shoot, Charlie-he's gone." Or maybe he was never there. Maybe.
This matukach was full of surprises. The barest hint of a smile slipped across Moon's face, but the Ute saw nothing funny in this white man's illusion. "You sure you saw somebody up there…?"
"Cross my heart and hope to…" Parris left the childish oath hanging in mid-air. Here in Canon del Espiritu, yards from a horribly mutilated body, it seemed unwise to tempt the Principalities and Powers with casual promises.
Two hours later, a gray Jeep Wagoneer with U.S. government plates roared up the muddy canyon road. Special Agent James E. Hoover dismounted. He was outfitted in a camouflage jump suit, freshly polished combat boots, a blue cotton jacket, and a matching blue baseball cap. Both jacket and cap had large white letters that spelled FBI. He marched up to Parris, who was leaning on the Blazer. "Give me the short version."
Parris's feet were cold, his head was aching, and a troublesome wisdom tooth was beginning to throb. And now, here was this obnoxious little twit, demanding a report. Mentally, he shrugged away his pain and annoyance. He would treat the special agent with the respect his position deserved. "I was with Charlie, we were looking for this missing person. Arlo Nightbird. Last report we had, he'd been on a routine errand to see Mrs. Perika, who lives at the mouth of the canyon. Anyway, we found his Mercedes on the gravel road…"
"I passed it on the way in," Hoover snapped.
A sharp pain shot through the roots of the cracked wisdom tooth; Parris rubbed his jaw tenderly. "Charlie… he thought we should check out the canyon. Then we found this body…"
"I hope," Hoover glanced at Moon, "something's left for the Bureau team to examine." He turned his face away and muttered just loud enough to be heard. "Unless this pair of Keystone Kops already screwed up the crime scene."
Parris's head was now throbbing with every beat of the pump in his chest. "Now just a damn minute…!" He took a quick step toward Hoover, who held his ground. Neither man blinked.
Hoover jutted his chin out defiantly. "You shopping around for trouble, I can provide you with a wide variety." If the big cop swung at him first, in front of witnesses, he would break both the yokel's arms. It would be self-defense, clear and simple; the Bureau wouldn't discipline him for defending himself.
Moon's face was dead pan; he watched thoughtfully, wondering whether Parris would flatten the special agent. Now that would be some story to tell.
A state trooper leaned to one side and whispered to Sally Rainwater: "Twenty bucks on the little guy in the jump suit." This tough little G-man clearly wasn't afraid of hell or high water. And he was at least ten years younger than the cop from Granite Creek.
Sally assented with a slight nod. The acting chief had shoulders like a buffalo; he would break this little snot in half!
Daniel Bignight bought ten dollars of the action because he felt an obligation to show solidarity with his fellow Native American officers. The boss was tough enough, but he was slow. The fed would chop him up.
Parris nodded toward a deer path that meandered off into the pines. "Mr. Hoover, I suggest we discuss our differences in private. Let's you and me take a little walk." Because he did not know what else to do, the special agent followed Parris, who stopped when they were barely out of sight and removed his jacket. He dropped his shoulder holster onto the jacket, and turned to face Hoover. "It's high time we got this sorted out."
"I'd like nothing better," Hoover said evenly, "soon as I'm off duty." There were now no witnesses to testify that the cop had started a fight. This was not good.
"We are," Parris said evenly, "going to settle this now."
Hoover's face was like flint. "I taught hand-to-hand combat at Quantico."
"Thanks for the warning." It was a useful piece of information.
There was no delaying the inevitable. Hoover sighed and shook his head; he had no choice but to teach this thickheaded cop a hard lesson. The special agent unbuttoned his jacket; his arms were still entangled in the sleeves when he saw Parris launch a right hook. He tried to duck. Too late. The heavy blow landed on his jaw, the sunlight went out, and the cold ground slapped him hard on the back. The special agent drifted helplessly, somewhere in that dim world just this side of utter nothingness.
Parris leaned against a pifton, and waited. He rubbed his sore knuckles. They ached terribly. They felt good. He felt better.
Hoover's leg twitched; he grunted. He sat up, gingerly rubbing his jaw, th
en struggled to get to his feet. "This isn't over."
Parris gripped Hoover's arm to steady him. "Yeah," he said gently, "I know." He followed the groggy man back to the throng of expectant policemen.
When the state trooper saw the lumpy bruise on Hoover's jaw and his staggering gait, he glumly passed a crisp twenty dollar bill to Sally Rainwater, who wasn't surprised. Daniel Bignight was greatly relieved; he gloated openly as he pocketed a pair of fives.
Parris's head had stopped throbbing, the dull pain in the wisdom tooth was barely noticeable. He interrupted the embarrassed silence as if nothing unusual had happened. "What we have here, Mr. Hoover, is the body of Mr. Arlo Nightbird. He's been struck on the head." On the forehead, to be exact. The mark of Cain?
"Anything else?" Hoover unconsciously pushed his tongue against a loose molar.
Moon smiled merrily at the special agent. "You remember Big Ouray?"
Hoover's eyes widened with suspicion. "If this is another snipe-hunt, I'll-"
"The body," Parris interrupted, "has been mutilated. Exactly like the Hereford bull!"
Hoover was open-mouthed, momentarily forgetting the throbbing jaw. "You mean somebody sliced off his ears and his… his gonads?"
"That," Parris said sadly, "is about the size of it." His feet were still cold and he desired nothing more than a long sleep. Sleep without dreams.
The special agent frowned, deep in thought. "Was he married?"
"He was," Parris said. Hoover certainly had a single-track mind.
"Did the victim… fool around?"
Moon sighed. "Only when he was awake."
"It'll be his wife," Hoover said. "Statistics show, sixty-one percent of the time in cases where philandering husbands are offed, it's the old lady that did it."
"I've met her," Parris said with open sarcasm, "she's a born killer."
Hoover eyed these thorns in his side with undisguised hatred. "You two must be all worn out. Maybe you'd like to go home and get some rest."
"Thanks," Moon said cheerfully, "we've sure appreciated spending this quality time with you."
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