Moon sat quietly. Benita was dead. Gone. Nothing much mattered beyond that.
"But it all fits," Parris said. "The wound on Nightbird's head, the clothes he left in her father's pickup. Hell, her father would have thrown that stuff away if he'd known it was there!"
"Let's assume," Hoover said, "that the girl did fight off an attempt at rape and is wounded in the process. She comes home, tells her father what happened and who did it. Night-bird is stranded in the canyon without transportation. Father freaks out, takes off hell-for-leather to the canyon, finds Nightbird, smacks him on the head, and clips off the family jewels. Just like he'd threatened to do."
Moon finally spoke. "It could have happened like that, but it didn't. I've known her since she was knee high… she'd never lie to me. Not even to keep her daddy out of jail."
"It's damn lucky," Parris said, "we talked to her when we did. Another day and we may never have known what actually happened to Mr. Nightbird."
"Oh, I don't know," Hoover said. "I suppose we make our own luck." He stared at Moon with an expression of mild derision. "Do you make your own luck, Sergeant Moon?"
"Us Utes," Moon said evenly, "are like the Irish. We have our own leprechauns." He leaned forward, meeting the FBI agent's stare. "And our own luck."
Parris shifted uncomfortably in his chair; the atmosphere was electric with tension. The least imbalance might strike lightning between these men.
"With this confession… this very convenient statement, there's no way in hell I can make a case against her father for Nightbird's head injury. But there's still the question of the mutilation." Hoover smiled with thin lips. "The girl said nothing about snipping off Nightbird's ears and balls. Even if her story is true, ten-to-one, Gorman Sweetwater returned to the canyon and fulfilled his threat to castrate Mr. Night-bird."
Parris cocked his head. "According to the M.E., the coyotes tore off the body parts."
Hoover's pale face flushed pink; he didn't realize Parris had seen the report.
"There's no case against Mr. Sweetwater for any part of this sorry episode," Parris added firmly. "Besides, the old guy needs to get out of jail so he can attend his daughter's funeral."
"Piss on her funeral," Hoover snapped.
Parris saw Moon's frame stiffen; the Ute got up from his chair, his big hands clenched into fists. Could he keep the Ute from snapping Hoover's neck? The special agent ignored Moon; he seemed unaware of the danger. Or maybe he wanted the Ute to make his move.
"Look," Parris said as he stepped between them. "There's no justification for holding Sweetwater. Why not cut him loose so he can attend the funeral? If some new evidence turns up, you can get an indictment and throw him back into the cage."
Hoover leaned back in his padded chair, propped an immaculate boot onto his glass-topped oak desk. "Can't cut him loose, even if I wanted to. It seems that Tom Parris and Huckleberry Moon have forgotten about something."
"Oh?" Parris said in a flat tone, "and what's that, G-Man?"
Hoover pulled a long unfiltered cigarette from a silver case. He laughed soundlessly and stuck the white cylinder between his lips. "In the process of resisting arrest"-he rolled his thumb on the striker wheel of a gold-plated lighter-"Mr. Sweetwater struck yours truly-a federal officer." Hoover touched the flame to the cigarette and inhaled. "Even with good behavior, which is unlikely, he'll spend at least eighteen months in a federal establishment for that little indiscretion."
Moon, muttering darkly in the Ute dialect, turned his back on Hoover.
Parris scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Are you sure," he asked, "that Mr. Sweetwater actually intended to hit you?" He paused as if trying to remember. "Or even that he did hit you?"
Hoover sprang to his feet. "What the hell do you mean-you guys saw that old blanket-ass take a cheap shot when I wasn't looking…"
"Now that I recall," Parris said, "that's what you called Mr. Sweetwater: 'blanket-ass.' But if you press charges for assault, I expect his lawyer will make a big point of the ethnic slur. Sweetwater may walk, or he may do the eighteen months." Parris pointed at the special agent's chest. "But your career with the Bureau won't last eighteen days."
Hoover turned away; he buried his face in his hands. "I'll turn Sweetwater loose, but if he cuts somebody else up, it's on your heads." His thin frame began to tremble. "You scheming bastards, get out of my office."
"I appreciate you getting Gorman out of jail," Moon said to Parris as they left.
"We were lucky this time," Parris said, "but somewhere, sometime, that little snake is going to bite one of us." He grinned at the Ute. "I sure hope it's you."
Daisy could barely see over the dashboard. "I guess almost everybody will be at her funeral." Neither of them would speak the name of the dead girl.
Moon was silent for some minutes as he steered the Blazer between potholes on the gravel road. When he turned onto the blacktop, he glanced toward his aunt. "Arlo's car had the headlight broken out. There was a hole knocked in the radiator."
Daisy looked away, toward the rippling waters of the Piedra on the west side of Route 151. She began to hum something that sounded vaguely like "Amazing Grace."
Moon continued casually, as if he were discussing the weather. "We found a little chunk of Arlo's headlight in your yard. I figure you picked up all the big pieces. The ones you could see."
The shaman took a quick look at the Ute policeman. "My eyes aren't so good as they was. Think maybe I'm gettin' them cataracts." Charlie was so clever; Daisy was proud of her nephew.
Moon tapped the brake pedal as a wild turkey darted across the road. "How'd it happen?"
Daisy's lips were tight with fury at the memory. "Arlo came to order me out of my home."
Charlie sighed. "So, what'd you do?"
"Heaved a crowbar at him. Missed, though." There was a hint of regret in her tone.
"The crowbar hit his car… broke the headlight?"
"And the radiator too, I guess. For awhile, he didn't say nothing at all, acted like he was choking on a bone. Then, he got in his fancy car, swearing like… like Arlo always swore when he was drunk." She put her hand on her ears to suppress the memory of this profanity. "Said he'd have me locked up in jail. Or sent to live with the crazy people." She searched Moon's face for some sign of sympathy but found none. "I cleaned up the glass so he couldn't prove the headlight was broke in my place. And then I went up to spend the night with the Three Sisters. Needed time to think. I was awful tired… fell sound asleep. Woke up later, thought I heard Gorman's truck go into the canyon, but I didn't know it was his little girl driving. I sure didn't know she had Arlo with her." Daisy shook her head sadly. "Poor, foolish little girl."
"After you heard Gorman's truck," Moon asked, "you hear anything else?"
Daisy tried hard to recall the events of that evening; she knew this might be important. "Don't remember anything after that. Must have went to sleep again; didn't wake up until the middle of the next day."
* * *
The cemetery was bordered on the sunset side by the meandering ribbon of the Pinos, which was little more than a brook in this season. In the springtime, the silt-laden torrent of snow melt roared by like an endless freight train, but now the sweet waters whispered and laughed over the slippery boulders. On the side of the cemetery where the sun rose, cars and pickups were parked along the shoulder of the blacktop road for a mile. Virtually all of the Utes and not a few of the Anglos and Chicanos in Ignacio had turned out for the graveside service. Daisy Perika shuffled along slowly between Gorman Sweetwater and Charlie Moon; the old shaman held tightly onto her nephew's postlike arm. Scott Par-ris followed behind, hat in his hand. It had taken all of Daisy's powers of persuasion to convince Gorman to come to his daughter's funeral; the crusty old man wanted "nothing more to do with them priests and their religion that couldn't keep my daughter from dying." When she finally told him that the ceremony would be held with or without him, and that the People would not think highly of a father who
didn't show up for his daughter's funeral, Gorman grudgingly relented. The cantankerous rancher had fortified himself with a pint of Canadian whiskey; he muttered darkly as he walked along unsteadily beside Daisy.
The crowd parted to make way for the respected woman and her retinue. Tender words of condolence were offered to Gorman, who showed no sign of hearing. There had been rumors that the old man would "have his say" at the cemetery, and some were attending the services in hope of witnessing a scandalous display that would be the talk of Ignacio for years to come.
Taxi, scribbling furiously on a yellow legal pad, stood behind the major throng of mourners. He nudged Daniel Bignight with a ragged elbow and whispered, "I am taking notes."
The policeman did not respond but Taxi was not discouraged.
"Did you know," he tugged at the policeman's sleeve, that old Nick is on the prowl?" He tapped himself on the chest. "The Knacker Man will taste blood again. I know this for a fact, and I am writing a synopsis of his activities. A treatment, they call it in the business."
The policeman held his breath and took a sideways step away from this strange man who smelled like road kill laced with some kind of pungent chemical.
Encouraged by this response, Taxi moved closer, his filthy coat brushing against the policeman's immaculate uniform. "I have a new agent, now. She has serious connections in Hollywood. I would," he continued with a sigh, "do anything to make it in Hollywood."
Daniel Bignight closed his eyes and prayed silently. Please God… he smells like dead meat. Please make him go away.
Taxi wandered aimlessly away into a crowd of mourners; they parted in front of him like the waters before the hand of Moses.
Daisy and her party stood before the open grave. Moon stood perfectly still; he would not look upon the coffin. Gorman muttered incoherently to himself; the old man reeled as if he might collapse.
Father Raes stepped in front of the rancher. "Gorman," he said firmly to the slouched man, "look at me!"
Gorman glared coldly at the little priest, but didn't speak.
"Benita has passed over to the other side," Raes said. "She doesn't need this funeral. This gathering is for her family and friends, those who loved her, who still love her. Do you understand?"
Gorman muttered something under his breath and nodded almost imperceptibly.
Raes moved closer and lowered his voice to a whisper. "I know you're bitter and I smell the whiskey on your breath, but I make you this solemn promise: If you disrupt this Holy Service, I will instruct Officer Moon to remove you from this place. And," he added darkly, "you will be disgraced forever in the eyes of the People." Gorman's eyes were slits, his jaw set like granite. The priest turned over his hole card. "Show respect, Gorman, or the Holy Virgin will be offended." He paused, staring the old rancher into submission. "Do you understand me?"
Gorman, who loved the Holy Virgin, was deeply wounded. He nodded meekly and lowered his gaze to the silver crucifix suspended from the priest's neck. He could not erase the picture of his suffering daughter from his mind. Poor Mary, she had watched her child suffer terribly before he died on that tree. With iron nails through his wrists and feet. It was a terribly sobering image.
"Very well," Raes said more gently. "Now let's begin." He returned to the flower-draped coffin and placed his hand on the shoulder of the chubby priest who beamed at the congregation. "This gentleman at my side," he addressed the crowd, "is Father Rory O'Dinnigan from Durango. Father O'Dinnigan is an Episcopalian."
There was a surprised murmur from the Spanish-Catholic element of the crowd.
Raes took a long breath and continued. "Father O'Dinnigan is our brother in Christ and a dear friend of Benita from Fort Lewis College. In light of Benita's experience in drawing nourishment from two branches of the Vine of our Lord, we will have an ecumenical service." Father Raes closed his eyes and prayed silently: God help me if the Bishop hears of this.
There were a few whispered comments from older Utes who were not offended by the presence of a Protestant minister, but thought it very bad form to mention the name of the dead.
Father Raes raised a hand for silence. "Later during the service, we will be reciting a Psalm of David. Father O'Dinnigan will read the English translation, I will follow line by line with the Catholic version in Spanish. We're passing out copies of the liturgy and the Psalm for those who wish to read aloud with us."
Harry Schaid, a member of the choir who had been drafted into service by the Catholic priest, was passing out copies of the liturgy. The veterinarian moved through the crowd. He gave copies to Emily Nightbird and her father;
Fidel Sombra rolled his paper into a tight cylinder and used the device to scratch at his ear. Schaid gave the leaflets to the tribal chairman, then to Daisy Perika. The veterinarian handed Gorman a copy of the document; the rancher immediately wadded it up and dropped it onto the ground.
Father Raes ignored Gorman and continued. "Many of you know that my knowledge of the Ute language is barely sufficient to carry on a simple conversation"-a few of the tribal members smiled at the little priest's inflated notion of his language skills-"but perhaps one of our Native American members will help me translate the Psalm and the Lord's Prayer into the Ute tongue for future services. Then we will truly live up to our reputation as a tri-cultural community. And now," the priest continued, sweeping his left arm in a broad arc, indicating the multitude of mourners, "remember the words of our brother Paul to those churches at Galatia: 'There is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, neither male nor female… for you are all one in Christ Jesus.'"
Scott Parris accepted a copy of the liturgy from Schaid; he folded the paper carefully and slipped it into his jacket pocket with a paper clip, two peppermints in cellophane wrappers, and a half dozen credit card receipts for gasoline purchases. And a red plastic toothpick. Items of little value but nevertheless difficult to discard.
Father O'Dinnigan raised his arms in supplication; when the crowd was completely silent, he began: "I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." The priest's voice rolled like thunder over the cemetery, hushing all the idle conversations.
Father Raes smiled and raised his eyes to the heavens. "I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He shall stand at the latter day upon the earth."
"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord," O'Dinnigan boomed, "…even so saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors."
Scott Parris was surprised by an inrush of joy… He was fantastically light… rested from his labors.
Daisy Perika had her eyes closed; her lips moved silently. Charlie Moon was reading the words aloud; but he kept an eye on Gorman who was swaying back and forth like a dry reed in the wind.
"The Lord be with you," Raes shouted to the congregation.
Parris was jarred back to consciousness when the crowd responded in a unison that reinforced their many voices to a swelling roar that swept over the cemetery. "And with thy spirit!" A fragrant breeze rippled among the congregation; women's skirts fluttered, men grabbed the brims of their hats.
"Now… let us pray," Raes said. The crowd fell silent, as did the wind.
In some hearts, the phrases danced lightly… mercies that cannot be numbered… entrance into the land of light… joy and fellowship of thy saints. Parris was again swept away by a spirit of lightness and joy.
There were a few moments of silence. Only the waters of the Piflos could be heard.
"Now," Raes said, "we will read together the Psalm of David."
"The Lord is my shepherd," O'Dinnigan bellowed defiantly to the Dark Powers and Evil Principalities. "I shall not want."
"El Senor me pastorea," Raes called out, "nada mefal-tara."
There was a murmur from the crowd as a few members of Saint Ignatius Catholic Church joined in the reading.
"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures," the Anglos proclaimed
joyfully with O'Dinnigan.
"El me ha colocado en lugar de pastos!" the Mexican-Americans shouted back. Gorman Sweetwater wept without knowing that he wept; his tears watered the dust at his feet.
Fidel Sombra snorted; he pulled a half-pint of cheap whiskey from his coat. He reluctantly stuffed the bottle back into his pocket when Emily scowled at him, but the old fanner sulked and fantasized about ways to get even with his stern daughter.
"He leadeth me beside the still waters," they chanted.
Parris felt as if he were floating; the sweet words fueled his rhapsody.
Father Raes paused for a moment; he heard something from far away, yet so near. Was it his imagination? Slightly unnerved, the priest continued: "Me ha conducido junta a unas aguas que restauran y recrean."
Abe Workman forgot his shyness, and joined with the chorus: "He restoreth my soul!"
The Spanish-speaking members of the congregation responded: "Convirtid a mi alma."
Parris was barely aware of his body, but he knew that his soul was restored. The next proclamation boomed out: "He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness."
Daisy was trembling; she tugged at Moon's sleeve. "Now," the shaman said urgently, "now… very close…" The Ute policeman did not hear her.
Harry Schaid offered Gorman Sweetwater another copy of the liturgy.
"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…"
"De esta suerte, aunqe caminase yo por medio de la som-bra de la muerte.…"
Father O'Dinnigan's deep voice boomed over the crowd like a great trumpet: "I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me."
Raes led the Chicanos with equal force: "no terneri nin-gun desastre; porque tu estds commigo."
"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life," O'Dinnigan shouted, "and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." The Episcopal priest's last word echoed back from somewhere… Forever.
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