The Shaman Laughs cm-2

by James D. Doss

  He did not see the presence behind him, nor did he hear it. He felt it. Scott Parris was suddenly overwhelmed with the dread of a small boy who imagines a monster lurking under his bed, and wants to hide under the covers. But he was not a small boy. And there was nothing to cover himself with. As he turned, the policeman slipped the Smith amp; Wesson revolver from the holster under his left arm.

  At first, he saw only a vague darkness. As he examined it, his mind searched the apparition and gave it shape. Broad shoulders. Hairy. Enormous head. The head had horns. And a single red ember that glowed brightly, then dimmed. A cyclops. Parris felt his breath coming in short gasps; the revolver was ice in his hand. "What is it," he muttered, "what in Hell…"

  Something like arms… or wings, spread outward from the shadowy form. It was an almost graceful gesture… an invitation.

  The policeman took a step backward, aiming the revolver at the center of the shadowy form. "It's not real," he whispered. But this was wishful thinking.

  The shadow's arm-wings were lifted higher; the amorphous form now had the appearance of a great bird of prey. The creature was waving something… a great scepter?

  It did not occur to the policeman to give a warning. Such formality had no place when you met the Devil. He pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty cylinder. He remembered cleaning the gun; the bullets were still in his pocket! The shadow grew to blot out the night sky as it moved toward him. Silently, almost unconsciously, he prayed. God protect me from the nameless terror…

  Parris heard a familiar voice behind him. "What's cookin', pardner?"

  23

  Parris glanced over his shoulder at Charlie Moon. "Look out, Charlie, I've got it cornered!"

  Moon's fingers found the bone grips of his.357 Magnum. "Got what cornered?"

  Parris motioned with his empty revolver. "There." But it was gone. Now the crickets chirped. Somewhere on a perch in the canyon wall, an owl hooted.

  Reluctantly, Parris holstered the.38. "You didn't see him? Big bastard, shoulders out to here." He held his arms wide, like a lying fisherman. "Seven, maybe eight feet tall. And," Parris's voice dropped almost to a whisper, "… horns. One big red eye." He began to tremble; he hoped Charlie Moon wouldn't notice.

  The Ute policeman cocked his head quizzically. "Horns? One eye?" Moon's features were concealed by shadow.

  Parris suspected that Charlie was smiling.

  The Ute was not smiling.

  "Horns," Parris said stubbornly. "And one red eye."

  Moon's silence was response enough for his partner.

  "Horns," Parris repeated. "The Tonompicket kid must have seen the same thing. No wonder he thought he'd seen the Devil dancing."

  "Well," Moon said, "seems like the awful sight made you pucker your rectum a little bit too."

  Parris grinned. "Lucky thing it did, or I'd be needing some clean underwear."

  "Sit tight, pardner." Moon turned away. "I'll have a look around."

  "Wait a minute-" But his friend had vanished, enveloped by the shadows. Parris cursed silently at the stubborn Ute. And at his own wobbly legs. He blinked at the Three Sisters to get his bearings. The restored kiva was only yards to his right; that was a good place to start looking. Caring nothing now about stealth, Parris stomped through the sage toward the edge of the ruined structure, tripping over a small boulder, brushing aside a juniper branch. There it was. He blinked into the depths of the circular structure. Nothing there. At least nothing that a man could see. But there was a sound. Behind him. A slow, rhythmic sound. Sounds of feet that danced. He reached for his revolver, then remembered the empty chambers. He pushed his hand into his pocket, frantically searching for the five.38 cartridges among the tangle of coins and keys. His fingers had located two hollow-points when the figure appeared, barely two paces away. It didn't look nearly so large this time. There was no red eye. This was a man with matted, unkempt hair decorated with a pair of feathers tucked under a headband. But only a man. Something he could deal with. Parris leveled the empty.38 at the figure. "Don't you move a whisker!"

  "I am… come to dance," the man muttered as he raised his left leg, balancing himself on the ball of his foot. He began, very deliberately, to execute a simple running-in-place step. His grunting chant sounded vaguely like something Parris had heard at a Ute Buffalo Dance.

  He was about to call for Moon when the dancing man reeled drunkenly. He stumbled into Parris, instinctively grabbing the policeman's wrist for support. As the.38 went flying from his grasp, Parris attempted a hammer lock. The dancing man struggled and broke free. Parris threw his weight onto the smaller man; they tumbled over a clump of bitterbrush. He landed squarely on top of the wriggling figure, whose head made a popping sound as it landed on a flat stone. The man's body went limp, as if a circuit in his brain had been interrupted. Parris put a finger under the man's jaw; there was a strong pulse.

  When Moon appeared, Parris was standing triumphantly over his quarry. "Got the sneaky bastard this time."

  "You must've hit him pretty hard," Moon said. "Is he alive?"

  "He's alive. And he hit his head on a rock."

  The Ute switched a penlight beam onto the unconscious man's face, a pale mask with three red chevrons painted on each cheek. Moon squatted; he touched a white feather. "Looks like he plucked a chicken's wing," he said with a wide grin. "I guess these hen feathers looked like horns."

  Parris bristled. "Look, Charlie, nobody likes a smartass…"

  "Hey, pardner, if you're scared of chicken feathers, it's okay by me. Maybe," he said with exaggerated gentleness, "when your momma was carryin' you, she got spooked by a rooster." Moon leaned close to examine the man's face. "You know who this is?"

  Parris leaned over to look. "That poet who sells insurance? Sure… the hustler who conned me into that sucker memory bet."

  "Right on both counts," Moon said. "Herb Ecker." He lifted the unconscious man's eyelid. "Pupils size of dimes. Kid's high on something." He directed the penlight beam onto a leather pouch strapped to Ecker's belt loop, then pulled a razor-sharp Buck knife from a beaded leather sheath. "Suppose he intended to use this blade on you?"

  "Didn't notice he had a knife," Parris muttered. This had not been a textbook example of recommended police procedure. Parris got to his feet. "So. Looks like this kid's our ball-cutter. Maybe the blade's got Nightbird's blood on it."

  The Ute turned to grin at Scott Parris. "Looks like you handled him pretty well in the second round. Of course, you got about thirty pounds and a foot reach on this kid."

  "I didn't hit him," Parris said with a rueful grin, "but I must admit he looked a helluva lot bigger… when he showed up the first time."

  "Well," Moon said soothingly, "guess I'd be scared too if I met up with someone decked out in war paint and chicken feathers." He paused thoughtfully. "If it was in the dark. And if I was a white man." He cleared his throat. "From the big city."

  Parris was about to reply when he heard a low moan. Ecker was on one knee, then crawling on all fours toward the edge of the kiva. Before the lawmen could react, he disappeared over the edge into the near-darkness below.

  Parris sprinted forward. "I'll handle this. He's my prisoner."

  "Go to it," Moon said, "but take it easy this time, don't hit him so hard. You can't use that story about him falling on a rock more'n once."

  Parris slipped over the edge of the kiva. Ecker, still on all fours, scurried sideways across the subterranean floor in crablike fashion, then turned to face his pursuers. Moon, standing above them at ground level, directed the flashlight into Ecker's face. The young man had a wild, terrified look in his eyes. He also had a snub-nose revolver in his hand. Ecker pointed the pistol toward Moon's flashlight.

  "Now, Herbie," Moon said calmly, "it's me. Charlie. Put the gun down." Moon slowly withdrew his own revolver from its rawhide holster.

  "No problem," Parris said, "I can handle this…"

  Ecker, hearing the voice, turned the.38 toward Parris. />
  The Ute raised his heavy revolver and aimed it toward the crouching man. "Drop it-right now!"

  Ecker muttered incoherently; Moon saw the muscles in Ecker's arm grow taut as his finger squeezed the trigger. Parris screamed at Moon: "No, don't shoot… it's not-" There was a booming report from Moon's revolver. Ecker's body slammed against the crumbling kiva wall. "… it's not… loaded," Parris whispered.

  They kneeled over the pale body, now painted with streams of warm blood that appeared jet black in the harsh, silver moonlight. "Damn," Moon said, "where'd he get the gun!" The Ute was trembling.

  "It's mine," Parris admitted.

  "He was gonna shoot you," Moon said in a stunned whisper, as if the very idea of anyone shooting his pardner was unthinkable.

  "I know," Parris said. He put his hand on Moon's shoulder. "Thanks, Charlie."

  The Ute policeman shook his head mournfully. He looked at Parris with moist eyes. "I never shot anyone while I've worn this badge."

  "You had no choice," Parris said. "You saved my hide, pardner." It was an absolutely necessary lie.

  Moon stood up and swallowed hard several times before he could speak. "I'll climb back to the mesa top and radio for some help."

  "Sure," Parrifc said blankly, "I'll stay with him." Now he knew the soul loss JoJo Tonompicket had felt. Hollow inside. His spirit was gone.

  A heavy cloud slipped over the canyon, but it did not block the pale amber light of the moon that now hovered low in the west. A new storm was rumbling over the San Juans. Moon turned away. "At least, it's all over now." The Ute's words were punctuated with a flash of lightning, then a sharp crack of thunder that echoed off the sandstone cliffs. He disappeared over the kiva wall and was swallowed up by the night.

  Parris knew better. It was never over.

  Herb Ecker rolled his eyes and coughed. A foam of blood erupted in pulsating gushes from the chest wound where a splintered rib protruded from his flesh. The young man's eyes had lost their glaze. Ecker, now perfectly lucid, whispered. Parris leaned over to listen. "What is it, kid?"

  "I am… dying."

  "I know." Parris pressed his handkerchief against Ecker's chest in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood. The warm liquid had a sickening, sweet aroma; the policeman fought an urge to vomit.

  Ecker grimaced with pain. He cried out sharply: "I came to dance…" He sucked in a lungful of air that immediately bubbled out his chest wound. "… to dance with"-Ecker gasped for air-"… a shadow… dance… and then there came a shadow, swift and sullen, dark and drear-"

  Parris tried to speak. There were no words.

  The pitiful youth grasped at the policeman's sleeve, his eyes full of terror. "I am going away to… I do not know… Oh God… do not forget me." Ecker's jaw dropped as a final breath rattled in his punctured lung. His face was a cold mask, his eyes like stones.

  Scott Parris wanted, above all else, to flee from this awful place. To hide. And forget. But there was one last task that must be done. The lawman worked the empty revolver free from Herb Ecker's death grasp. He filled the chambers with cartridges from his pocket. As he returned the weapon to Ecker's cold hand, the policeman shivered. But not from the frigid rain that had begun to fall in great sheets. He stared helplessly at the lifeless face. The death of this foolish young man was his responsibility. No. Worse than that. His fault. The lawman, on his knees, wept. His tears dropped onto Ecker's chest, mixing with the poet's blood.

  The horned figure stood on a sandstone ledge jutting out from Paiute Mesa, across Canon del Serpiente from the squat, brooding forms of the Three Sisters. Filled with a consuming hate, the hairy form shook a heavy staff at the dark heavens and mouthed obscene curses that were immediately covered by the cleansing ramble of thunder. For this small Man of the Book, the horned one had made his own plans for a painful death… and ritual mutilation. And, he licked his lips, delectable cannibalism. Now this precious celebration, this sacred ode to the Dark Angel, was an opportunity forever lost. The large Man of the Crescent Moon was to have been next. But he would have to wait… for a time. With renewed hatred, the strange figure glared down-ward into the canyon at the tiny figure of Scott Parris. The policeman was foolishly guarding the pale corpse of the poet as if it had some worth. The Kneeling Man lived. But that could be remedied.

  24

  FBI Field Office, Durango

  James Hoover searched the glum faces of the lawmen and wondered, What's wrong with this picture? These bum-blers get lucky… they nail the mutilator. Should be ecstatic. Bragging about their success. Rubbing my nose in it. But they act like their favorite hound dog just croaked. These sneaky bastards are hiding something! But what?

  He cleared his throat and tapped the glass top of his desk with the blade of Ecker's Buck knife. Forensics hadn't found any blood on the blade. So Ecker's a neat freak. He cleaned the blade. He coughed lightly to get their attention. "You want to know what I think?"

  No response.

  "My money says Ecker was responsible for Sweetwater's mutilated bull. And," Hoover added firmly, "for the murder and mutilation of Mr. Arlo Nightbird."

  Scott Parris allowed himself a bitter smile.

  "Ecker," Hoover continued, "was obviously Mr. JoJo Tonompicket's dancing demon." He turned toward the Ute. "We've examined the little bag of junk you found on the kid's belt."

  Moon spoke softly, as if to himself. "Must have been Ecker's notion of a medicine bag."

  Hoover emptied the contents of the leather bag onto his desk. A small ceramic pipe with a sooty bowl. Dried plant leaves wrapped in tissue paper. A half dozen pink quartzite pebbles, a piece of charcoal. He used the blade of the hunting knife to sort the parts. "Pipe bowl had traces of crack. And there were these… dried weeds. Snake-weed. Golden banner. Both poisonous. I expect he was smoking this stuff along with the cocaine."

  "He was pretty high on something when we found him," Parris said.

  "Our psychological wizards," Hoover continued, "analyzed his journal. They diagnose Ecker as a multiple personality. By day, he's a mild-mannered peddler of insurance, scribbler of verse, student of anthropology. After the sun goes down, he expresses his dark side. Occult activities. Strange visions. Weird dances. When the feeling moves him, Ecker carries out a peculiar mission: kill and mutilate the odd animal. This experience whets his appetite for a victim higher on the food chain. Finally, he has his opportunity when Mrs. Nightbird phones and tells him that her husband is late getting home. Ecker knows that his boss is on a visit to see Mrs. Perika. He heads for the canyon, catches Night-bird with his pants down. Does the same number on his boss as he did on the bull. Except," Hoover added with a leer, "for adding a slight variation on the theme." Hoover now knew about the testicles that Dr. Simpson had found in Arlo Nightbird's throat. So did every living soul in Ignacio.

  "It's a neat theory," Parris said. "But there's no hard evidence to tie this Belgian kid to the mutilation of the Hereford bull, much less to the murder of Arlo Nightbird."

  "I wish," Hoover said acidly, "we'd found Mr. Night-bird's ears in Ecker's medicine bag, but things usually don't work out that neatly in the real world of criminal investigation." The special agent spoke slowly, deliberately, as if he was dealing with a slow-witted child. "We've got a kid who howls at the moon, smokes any weed he can get his hands on, wears war paint and feathers, and dances in the woods at midnight. He carries a sharp knife. When he's high, he isn't afraid of anything. Killing and mutilating a bull or," he paused, "cutting up a human being… that gives him big medicine." Hoover carefully replaced the items into Ecker's leather bag. "What happened is Tom and Huckleberry got lucky and stumbled over the killer. So," there was menace in his voice, "don't you guys fight me on this."

  Charlie Moon was silent, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.

  Parris understood. If Ecker was guilty of Arlo's mutilation-murder, Gorman Sweetwater was no longer a suspect. Ecker was past caring and Moon didn't want Hoover harassing Gorman. And that was that.


  "Off the record," Hoover said to Moon, "I'm glad you blew him away. Saves the government a lot of time and expense." He was pleased to see the Ute's face turn to stone. "Of course it wouldn't have been necessary to shoot the suspect," Hoover said with a pretense of regret, "if Ecker hadn't managed to relieve your sidekick of his revolver…"

  Scott Parris opened his mouth, thought better of it, then clamped his jaw shut.

  Hoover's jaw ached intermittently. Especially during the small hours when his world was eternally black and empty. And without the comfort of sleep. Scott Parris's heavy fist had left a hairline crack in the bone just below his wisdom tooth. And a deep scar in his psyche. "My written report will reflect the fact," Hoover savored the words, "that Mr. Parris was unable to exercise physical control over the suspect." He stared coldly at his victim. "It takes a young, vigorous man to perform the physical aspects of a lawman's duties." The thorn had been expertly inserted; now it needed a twist. "Maybe you're losing your edge." Then a moment to fester. "But wait-" He slapped a palm on his forehead. "I missed the obvious explanation. You didn't catch Ecker with his arms all tangled up in his coat. Sure. That's it." A

  sharp pain pulsated in Hoover's jaw. "You didn't have a chance to throw a sucker punch."

  "Well… maybe you're pretty close to the truth"-Par-ris's thoughtful frown furrowed his brow-"guess I have kind of lost my edge." He clasped his hands and studied the worn wool carpet with an embarrassed expression. "But I figure it's because I'm out of practice. It's hard to stay frosty when all you deal with is kids and punks." He glanced up at Hoover. And barely smiled. "Problem is… I haven't had to fight a real man in more'n a year."

  They were halfway to Ignacio when Parris muttered, more to himself than to his friend, "One thing I can't figure."

  "Just one thing, pardner?" Moon, turned the windshield wipers on.