"Hey," she said.
He paused in mid-stride, then leaned forward slightly to get a better look. "Yes?"
Daisy's back was to the street lamp, her face masked in shadow. "Need to talk."
He didn't like the sound of this, but he managed a casual tone. "Want to come inside?"
Daisy considered the dark windows. Like little square eyes in the flat face of the structure. The door was an open mouth. "No," she snapped.
"Well, then," he said, "What'll we talk about?"
The shaman realized that she had not prepared herself for this encounter. How could she say it? "It's about what you've been doing…" She paused, drawing a deep breath, "… to those animals."
He felt a warning premonition chill his blood. He tilted his head and blinked at this unwelcome visitor. "What… exactly," he asked, "do you want?"
She told him.
30
BURNT CREEK RANCH
POWDERHORN, COLORADO
The ranch foreman did not have cattle on his mind as he steered the battered Jeep pickup between ruts in the gravel road. Toby Aucliffe wasn't even thinking of rain or, more to the point, the lack of rain-the western rancher's eternal preoccupation. Toby, with a stub of a cigar clamped between his nicotine-stained teeth, had a woman on his mind. A particular woman who had skin as pink as a fresh slice of ham, a woman with a voice that was slow and sweet, like thick maple syrup dripping off a stack of hot buttermilk pancakes. Toby enjoyed his food almost as much as his women, and tended to compare and intermingle these two categories of pleasure in an almost seamless fashion. He let up on the accelerator and eased the little truck around a hairpin curve that hugged a deep arroyo.
He smelled the carcass before he saw it.
Toby slammed the pickup door, threw the unlighted cigar onto the gravel road and ground it savagely under his boot heel. Damn cows. Almost as bad as horses. Turn your back, and, just to spite you, they'd fall over deader'n a stone. In his view, the animals got sick or died just to annoy him, to ruin his plans for a Saturday night in town. He hesitated, then stomped across the dry meadow toward the still form in a patch of sage. From the road it looked like a boulder, but the cowman knew every boulder on his turf. This was a purebred Hereford, one of more than six hundred head on the Burnt Creek ranch. As he approached the carcass, he realized that this was a big animal. This was one of the bulls. Toby cursed silently. Purebred Hereford bulls cost serious money. The consortium of Dallas chiropractors who owned the ranch would demand a full report on this one. "A written report, listing all the pertinent details," he muttered aloud, imitating the whining tone of their bespectacled accountant. The barely literate cowman hated accountants almost as much as he hated beeves that croaked for no good reason. Toby cursed again, this time his fury directed toward the rich chiropractors who played at ranching.
When he was within a few feet of the remains, Toby Au-cliffe stopped suddenly, bouncing back like a drunk who had stumbled into a glass door. "Oh no…" He turned away in horror, closing his eyes to blot out the picture of the mutilation. Then, the hard case vomited up his breakfast.
The package arrived at the Granite Creek Police Department by United Parcel Service. Scott Parris read Nancy Beyal's return address; he cut the heavy tape with his pocket knife and unwrapped the brown paper. Inside, he found the paperback romance that the dispatcher had been reading on the day he arrived at the Southern Ute Police Station.
Parris smiled at the teasing note taped to the lurid cover of the Mexican romance novel.
Dear Scott P.:
Thought you might enjoy this on some lonely night when Anne is traveling.
Luv. Nancy B.
His smile vanished as he saw the cover of the paperback. The policeman put his hand into his coat pocket. It was still there. A crumpled copy of the liturgy that veterinarian Harry Schaid had passed out to the mourners at Benita Sweetwa-ter's funeral. He searched the wrinkled surface until he found the words:
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… De esta suerte, aunge caminase yo por medio de la sombra de la muerte…
Of course.
Emily brushed aside a moist wisp of hair and looked up from the deep furrow where she was planting the Parrot tulip bulbs under precisely eight inches of lightly fertilized soil. Fidel Sombra slammed the truck door and sat down on the edge of the front porch. He removed his new straw hat and scratched at his grizzled head. "Hello, dotter."
Emily wiped the rich soil from her delicate hands. "Good morning, Daddy." She wrinkled her pretty nose and smiled. The old man hadn't bathed in a week; he smelled like his pigs. "I've got some coffee on. Shall I bring you a cup?" Better that he didn't come inside, stink up the house.
"Nope. I've already drunk so much coffee today, it'd squirt out my ears." He had killed a six pack of Mexican beer. The old man removed a sheath knife from his belt and used the curved tip of the gleaming blade to scrape the dirt from under his horny fingernails. "Besides, your coffee ain't worth a sh-I mean, it's altogether too weak for me."
She watched her father and frowned thoughtfully. Instinctively, Emily sensed that something was wrong. Something. But what?
31
Charlie Moon sat across the booth, having lost interest in a piece of Angel's pecan pie. "I can't make an arrest with nothing to go on but your notion about Aunt Daisy's… uh… vision. It's not evidence."
"But it does fit," Parris said stubbornly.
"I expect," Moon admitted cautiously, "it could have happened that way."
Parris wondered whether the old woman had actually witnessed the mutilation of Arlo Nightbird from her perch on the side of Three Sisters Mesa. Perhaps she rejected the horrible scene from her conscious mind. Then, maybe she slept… and dreamed the vision. A collection of graphic symbols representing the victim and the mutilator. "So what do we do?"
The Ute's face was impassive. "Hoover," he said slowly, "believes Herb Ecker killed and mutilated Gorman's bull. And likewise for Arlo Nightbird. He's closed the case." Moon pushed the pie away; he dipped a spoon into his cup of lukewarm coffee. He stirred. "But maybe I should stir the pot… see what floats to the top."
Canon del Serpiente
Once again, the long finger dipped blood from the ancient depression in the boulder. The finger drew. Now there was a new representation of a human being on the sandstone. This new stick-man kneeled above the earlier figure of the Man of the Book. The scarlet fingertip made many small spots between the figures; they were tears. Kneeling Man wept tears of blood onto Dead Poet. Soon, they would be together.
32
"I don't see why this couldn't of waited till tomorrow." The old farmer's back ached and he had an overwhelming desire for a drink. A strong drink. Fidel Sombra rubbed a dirty sleeve across his mouth. "A bunch of my pigs got loose last night, and I been chasing the greasy little bastards all over La Plata County, from here to hell and back. I'm awfully tired." He waited in vain for the least bit of sympathy.
Emily had her little hand out, palm up. She spat the words at him. "That knife you were using for your manicure the other day; I was certain I had seen it before. Last night, I remembered. That was Arlo's knife. Give it to me. Now!" His daughter had that stubborn look that he remembered from her mother's face. It would be pointless to lie. Fidel sullenly removed the sheath knife from his belt and offered it to his daughter.
"I had assumed that animals chewed Arlo's ears off," Emily said. "But you had his knife. You must have… removed his…" Her words were interrupted by a shudder. "What did you do with…"
"No need to worry about it." He winked. "Fed 'em to the hogs."
She closed her eyes and shook her head in disbelief. Now her voice was soft, as if she was attempting to communicate with a moron. "Daddy… tell me what you did with Arlo's turquoise ear stud."
Fidel stiffened his back. That had been his favorite keepsake from the memorable trip to Spirit Canyon. "Don't have it no more."
Emily stamped her tiny foot. "Don'
t lie to me, Daddy. I'm not leaving this house until you give me the ear stud!" She was clenching the hunting knife in a tight little white-knuckled fist.
Emily was her mother's daughter, and Fidel was certain that she could tell when he was lying. "Honest, dotter. I don't have it no more."
"How," she said evenly, "could you not have it?"
Fidel was trembling; he couldn't take his eyes off the knife. "I… well… I kind of lost it."
Emily realized that he was terrified. She dropped the knife into her purse. "That's absurd, Daddy. How could you lose it?"
The old farmer explained precisely why he no longer had the turquoise ear stud in his possession. At first, the remembrance of his drunken prank made him smile. Then, he interrupted his narrative with snickers. Finally, it was too much to bear. Fidel Sombra cackled and wheezed until his ribs ached.
33
Charlie Moon wondered-had he been foolish to take up police work? There wasn't much money in it, and he had nothing better to do than answer another urgent call from Louise Marie LaForte. It was like he was her personal policeman. The old woman was a bit peculiar on her best days, and on her worst days she saw things. Louise Marie saw haunts. She saw the loup-garou. Louise Marie had probably had a taste of her homemade wine. Moon smiled-maybe she had tasted a quart. He turned the Blazer into her gravel driveway and, from long habit, glanced at the dilapidated house next door. A shade was quickly pulled in the upstairs window, blocking the flickering light from a kerosene lamp. So, the writer-taxidermist-lunatic was, despite repeated warnings, still spying on his neighbor. Taxi was getting to be a nuisance. The old woman was waiting on her porch swing. Moths danced a frenzied jitterbug in the dim yellow light filtering through a closed window shade; a small crockery pitcher was on a tray by her knee. Moon tipped his hat. "What's cookin', Louise?" She pointed to an extra cup by the pitcher. "Would you like some tea?"
"Never touch the stuff. What's the problem this time?"
Louise Marie drained the last swallow of "tea" from her cup, then hiccuped daintily. "This time it's bad," she said with an air of delicious mystery, "very bad."
"What's bad?"
She waved her little hand in a dramatic arc toward the heavens. "I have seen the northern lights dance over the earth, flapping her long skirts of blue fire." There was a long, thoughtful pause before she continued. Louise Marie had a sense for dramatic timing. "I have seen the loup-garou many times. Oui, I once even saw the great water monster with the long neck swimming in Missisquoi Bay in Lake Champlain, but," she murmured as she solemnly crossed herself, "I am a good Catholic so I never believed in reincarnation." Some things, of course, happened whether you believed in them or not.
Moon sat down beside her in the porch swing. The chain creaked ominously under the strain of his weight. "You mean like when dead folks come back as somebody else?" There was a vague memory he couldn't quite connect with. A memory of a dream.
"Oui," she said darkly, "or if they were very naughty, they may come back as something else."
He squinted at the thin sliver of moon rising over the Pinos. "Well, don't know as I ever thought much about it." He put his arm on the swing behind the old woman and patted her on the shoulder. "Is that why you called me out in the middle of the night, to talk about reincarnation?"
"He's back," she whispered. There was a sweet fragrance of raspberry wine on her breath.
"The loup-garou? I figured he was gone for good."
"Worse than loup-garou." Louise Marie shuddered. "Arlo Nightbird is back."
Moon stopped swinging and the old woman almost pitched forward onto the porch floor. "What'd you say?"
"Arlo," she said as she regained her composure, "he's come back. I heard this funny noise, just a little while ago." Louise Marie paused to pour scarlet liquor from the pitcher into the cup; she had a sip to steady her nerves. "Went out to check with my flashlight. Saw him in my garden. Then I called the police."
"You know," Moon said sternly, "you don't live in Southern Ute jurisdiction and you're not a Ute. You're not even any kind of Indian. You should have called the Ignacio police."
"The Town Police always say 'Call Charlie Moon,' " she said pitifully. "You're the only policeman who will come out to help a poor old lady." Louise Marie scooted closer to the big man.
The Ute policeman tilted his head back. He watched the countless stars. He could almost feel the whirling power of the galactic arms, flinging the earth through deep space. "What was Arlo up to in your garden?"
"He was rooting around, probably for some old potatoes. Or maybe grubs."
"Grubs?" Moon grunted. "Can't imagine Arlo having a taste for grubs."
"Oui. But he does now," she said patiently. "He came back as a swine, you see."
Moon smiled at the Big Dipper. "Well, I can understand how a person might have a hard time telling the difference between Arlo and a pig."
Her shoulders stiffened. "This is not to be taken lightly, Charles Moon. That pig was definitely Arlo Nightbird, come back to torment me."
Reason, the Ute decided, was his only weapon in dealing with the old woman's fantasies. "But why would Arlo visit you, Louise Marie?"
She shrugged, as if it was a great mystery. But Louise Marie had no doubt that the visitation was Arlo's revenge. She had, after all, called him a swine!
Moon turned his head to look down at the sharp little eyes peering up through a mound of wrinkled flesh. "What makes you so sure this particular porker was Arlo Night-bird?"
"Well," she said with firm assurance, "it couldn't have been nobody else."
"And why not?"
"That pig was wearing Arlo's big turquoise stud," she touched her left ear lobe, "Right here."
Charlie Moon trudged around the farmhouse, slogging through the mud that would turn into a hard plaster on his new boots. He paused, shaded his eyes from the sun, and shouted toward the barn. "Fidel… you out here?"
The old farmer appeared in the barn door. He removed his tattered Farmall hat, pushed a swatch of matted gray hair off his forehead, but didn't speak. Moon took long steps across the barnyard, hoping this would minimize the accumulation of mud on his boots. It didn't.
"How you doing, Fidel?" The policeman sat down on a moldy bale of hay and attempted to clean his boots with a handful of straw.
"Lots of chores to do," the old man answered sharply. "What brings you out to my place?"
"Heard some of your pigs got loose."
Fidel Sombra's hands tightened into fists. "You come here to talk about pigs?"
Moon didn't look up from his boot cleaning. "Wanted to talk about Arlo's murder."
The old man felt his heart racing. "You're… you're outta your juris-whadayacallit."
"Guess you're right." Moon wiped his boot heel on the hay bale. "But this isn't official. Kind of a personal visit."
The farmer turned up a burner on his Coleman stove until the black liquid in the blue enameled pot bubbled. "Why d'you care about that little horse's-ass…"
"It's kind of a puzzle," Moon said, "can't get it off my mind."
"You wonderin' why that foreign feller killed Arlo?" Fidel poured coffee into a filthy ceramic cup. "Why, that crazy drugged-up kid didn't need no reason."
"Ecker didn't kill Arlo." Moon continued to clean his boots. "We both know what happened, don't we, old man?"
The farmer sat down on a three-legged milking stool. He glared at the Ute policeman. "You know so damn much, you tell me-then we'll both be smarter."
"I've been checking the telephone records. You called your daughter on the same evening Arlo went into Canon del Espiritu with…"-Moon choked on Benita's name and started again-"… with Gorman's daughter."
Fidel dropped his gaze to the ground. "Don't mean nothin'. I call my dotter almost every night."
"Emily told you Arlo was late for their anniversary dinner date. Then," Moon continued, "the record shows you called the Nightbird Insurance Agency. Talked for about four minutes."
"I ca
n call anybody I damn well please…"
"You bullied Herb Ecker into telling you that Arlo had gone up to the canyon to see my Aunt Daisy." It was a reasonable speculation. "So you knew where Arlo was and…"
The old man bristled. "You got no business here. This ain't no part of the reservation." Fidel regained some of his composure. "Besides, all you got is a pocketful of guesses."
Moon smiled; he got up and hitched his thumbs behind his gun belt. "What if I told you we'd picked up one of your runaway pigs?" He saw a sudden fear flicker in Fidel's eyes. "And what if I told you it was a real stylish porker-wearing Arlo's turquoise ear stud?" The Ute hadn't seen a sign of the pig with the jeweled ear, but Fidel wouldn't know that. Not unless Fidel had recovered the pig himself.
The old fanner deliberately poured his coffee onto the straw; he stared at the spilled liquid as it gradually disappeared into the soft earth. "I was drunk as a skunk when I prettied that pig up," he whispered, "but it seemed like the right thing to do at the time." The old man'wiped his eyes with a grimy sleeve. "What're you gonna do?"
"Can't leave this thing like it is," Moon said. "I'll have to tell Emily what I know."
Fidel turned his coffee cup thoughtfully in his dirty hands, studying the ceramic object as if he had never really seen it before. "I'd as soon you'd leave my dotter outta this."
Moon closed his eyes and tried to remember Benita's face. Every day, the picture faded in his mind. But one thing didn't fade away-Arlo was responsible for Benita Sweet-water's death. But Arlo had been murdered too, and payment must be made for that death. "I've been thinking about that a lot," he said. "I'll have to do what's right." He watched Fidel's face. "You understand."
"Sure," the farmer said. "I know." Everybody in Ignacio knew that you could count on Charlie Moon to do the right thing. Fidel cursed, then stomped the coffee cup into a thousand fragments under his heel.
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