The Shaman Laughs cm-2

by James D. Doss

  "Hunch." Moon pitched a rumpled pile of clothes at Parris's feet. Later, when the time was right, he would tell his friend that he'd had his inspiration in the flower shop. From a television perfume commercial. My Confession. That was when he remembered Oswald's sarcastic suggestion that he pray for a confession. "My Confession," the lovely woman on the television screen had whispered, "is subtle, barely touching his consciousness." And that, of course, was exactly how the confession had been offered. Subtle. Barely touching the Ute policeman's consciousness.

  Oswald's "confession" played and replayed in his memory, much like the lines of an old song that would not go away: "… surely the mutilator will confess his crimes to you… you were quite right to come to me… I can describe precisely how the bull was mutilated." The old man had described the mutilator as if he knew the criminal intimately. But the Ute policeman had dismissed these statements as the foolish ramblings of an overzealous eccentric-a self-deluded old man who believed he could understand the mind of a madman he had never met.

  And what had Oswald said when they were barely inside his door? Something about wanting to try a new contest. "One that challenges the intellect."

  The compulsive gambler's final hint now surfaced from the Ute's memory; it whispered in the frigid breeze that shook the little trees:

  "It is only a game, don't you see?" A sudden gust whipped at a juniper and the writhing branches repeated the whisper… Only a game… don't you see… don't you see… don't you see?

  But Moon hadn't seen. This confident player had purposely shown his hand to his opponents. And, Moon realized bitterly, he hadn't bothered to look at Oswald's cards. Oswald had even presented the lawmen with the weapon he had used to kill Big Ouray. The old man had taken pains to guide them away from false assumptions about the physical strength required to crush the bull's skull, insisting that a twelve-year-old could swing the club with sufficient force to do the job. It was only a matter of accuracy, and that required nerve. Oswald was not short on that commodity.

  Rolling Thunder had probably been killed in the same manner, to provide Oswald with the skin to wear on his midnight prowls. Moon leaned over to pick up the Mayan club with the smoky yellow quartz head. Oswald had gone straight to the book with the figure of a bovine skull, recited the thickness of the bone, pointed out the precise location where a fatal blow must fall. He must have enjoyed that mocking game; demonstrating to the slow-witted lawmen exactly how he had bludgeoned the animals. Knowing they wouldn't understand the significance of his testimony. Certain that he would eventually win the game. And he had come close. Too close.

  But it was Emily Nightbird who had unwittingly unlocked the vital knowledge buried deep in the Ute's subconscious. It was what she had said to justify the brutal castration and suffocation of her husband. "You had to be there." Almost as she spoke the words, Moon had remembered the conversation in Oswald's parlor with crystal clarity. The old man had made the teasing remark: "… this mutilator certainly was not the pitukupf. Or one of those old Anasazi spirits defending his resting place."

  Oswald, that tireless collector of such arcane facts, would know that the pitukupf reportedly lived in Canon del Espiritu. And the Canyon of the Spirits was also where the local Anasazi had left their impressive petroglyphs on the flat sandstone walls. But how did Oswald know that the Hereford bull had been killed in Canon del Espiritu? He had only been told that the bull was killed in a canyon. There were hundreds of canyons on the reservation, dozens with enough water and grass to support livestock. But Oswald had known precisely where Big Ouray was slain because he had wielded the club that cracked the skull. It was like Emily had said. He had to be there.

  Parris shivered as he buttoned his shirt, but not from the cold. "I still can't imagine this old guy taking on a full-grown bull… armed with nothing but a stone club."

  "He was," Moon said, "one of a kind." One hoped it was so.

  There was a long silence before Parris spoke. "But why?"

  Moon helped his friend to his feet. "For Oz, it was a game." That was all. Life, the gambler had often asserted, was a game. Oswald had sweetened the pot on this ultimate contest. And lost.

  Parris nodded toward the painted body. "He's dead?"

  The Ute nodded. Between the Moon of New Grass and the Moon of Dead Leaves Falling, he had killed two men. It was time to think about another line of work.

  Parris thought he saw a leg twitch. "You sure he's dead?" In the horror movies, this would be the time when the body of the beast would be reanimated.

  "I'm sure." The Ute, who remembered his bitter frustration when Benita died… and Arlo Nightbird was beyond his reach, was certain that his friend wanted Oswald to live. So he could get his hands around a throat that still pulsated with life.

  But Moon was mistaken. Hatred, while the vision lived, was not possible. Faint whispers of the sweet song lingered in Parris's senses like the remnant of a delicate fragrance. Music infinitely pure, more lovely than could be imagined.

  He closed his eyes and thought he saw a faint afterglow of that bright light across the singing river.

  But he wondered. What did the spirit of Oswald Oakes hear, what awful visions did he see? And what dark mansion had been prepared in his father's house… across that other river?

  Scott Parris bowed his head and closed his eyes. And prayed. For lost souls.

  36

  Daisy Perika held the Southern Ute Drum under the sunlight that streamed through her kitchen window, illuminating a trillion tiny particles of floating dust. She read the story on the front page carefully, forming each word with her lips. Oswald Oakes had killed the tribe's buffalo for its skin-then he had killed and mutilated Gorman's prize Hereford bull! But she remembered something about Oakes-this was the man that Charlie Moon played poker with. Oakes was a compulsive gambler. She thought about this and smiled. Of course. And the buffalo spirit had pointed her toward this man! The shaman closed her eyes and remembered. She could see the deep forest… and the chalklike skeleton that dropped the rectangles of pottery on the moss, then gazed anxiously at them to see the result. The skeleton was playing some form of ghostly solitaire, like an old warrior playing wisa-nipi with his painted wooden disks. The skeleton was a gambler.

  Daisy sighed. It was a dark world, where a man would play such dark games as Oswald Oakes had lost himself in. Enough to make you want to cry. But there had been enough tears. What an old woman needed, from time to time, was a good laugh.

  Special Agent James E. Hoover, accompanied by Sam Parker, was ushered to his customary table by the window. The owner, who was also the cook and waiter and janitor in the ten-table hole in the wall, rubbed his hairy hands on a filthy apron and grinned crookedly at this regular customer. "Good ta see ya, Mr. Hoover." He glanced at Parker. "What'll ya have, gents?"

  "Something wholesome, Percy," Hoover said. "Brought my boss along, so help me make a good impression."

  Percy faked a chuckle.

  Parker tilted his head to read the handwritten menu through the bottom of his bifocals.

  Hoover unfolded a napkin. "So what's good tonight?"

  "Well, for eight-fifty, I could broil you a steak with baked spud and sour cream. And the barbecue is six ninety-five with wedge fries. Or," Percy added seductively, "you could try the special."

  Hoover's eyebrows peaked. "Special?"

  Percy twisted his face into an evil grin. Hoover was a cheap bastard who left lousy tips. And always ordered the special because it was a bargain. "It's our S-Q special. Fresh sausages, mashed spuds with cream gravy, and two veggies," the manager said, "for three-twenty-five."

  Hoover hesitated.

  Percy leaned forward. "And dessert is free with the special! Cherry cobbler. With vanilla ice cream."

  The special agent considered the value and was hooked. "Bring on the special." He looked across the red-checkered oil cloth at his boss. "What'll you have, Sam?"

  Sam Parker studied the menu. "Maybe I'll have the special. And deca
f coffee."

  Percy nodded. "Sorry, bud. Only one order of the special left. Try the barbecue. Or I got ham steak with brown sugar and pineapple slices."

  Except for occasional bits of small talk, they ate their meals in silence.

  Hoover's hands shook slightly; a muscle in his jaw twitched with an unseemly rhythm. It was apparent that the other customers paid the employees of the Federal Bureau of Investigation not the least attention, but he could not shake the unsettling sensation that unseen eyes watched his every move. He repeatedly glanced over his shoulder toward the dirty plate glass window, but it was impossible to see what might be lurking in the darkness outside. Only the occasional flash of headlights was visible.

  Sam Parker was making mental notes about this troublesome employee. The bloodshot eyes. The nervous pattern in Hoover's speech. The tic in his jaw. There had been other subtle indications that the man was… emotionally unstable. Hoover was short-tempered. And nervous. And mildly paranoid. But worst of all, Hoover had been seeking attention from the press. The greenest rookie knew that publicity was the exclusive domain of the public relations officer. Not only had Hoover made unauthorized public announcements to the effect that Herb Ecker was guilty of the Nightbird murder, but it appeared that he had been wrong. Charlie Moon had made a solid case against the late Oswald Oakes for the mutilation of the Hereford bull and the killing of a tribal buffalo. And Oakes had viciously assaulted Scott Parris. It seemed a reasonable extrapolation that Oswald had also killed and mutilated Arlo Nightbird. But Charlie Moon had made no move to charge Arlo's death against Oswald Oakes's bill. Parker suspected that Moon, as usual, knew a great deal more than he cared to reveal. Maybe another tribal member had mutilated and murdered Nightbird. But that might as well remain Ute business. Parker had a rare gift; he knew when to keep his nose out of tribal affairs.

  James E. Hoover was Sam Parker's immediate concern. A single misfit could tarnish the image of thousands of dedicated, capable investigators who routinely risked their lives to protect the citizens of this great republic. Patience, that was the thing. Sooner or later, there would be an excuse to write up a personnel action on this nasty little bastard. Hoover had skirted the edge of unacceptable behavior; some-thing more concrete was needed to put this guy away. Parker excused himself and visited the grimy rest room to empty his bladder.

  For the tenth time in as many minutes, Hoover glanced over his shoulder and squinted suspiciously toward the plate glass window. Aside from a few headlights, nothing moved on the street. But the skin on the back of his neck was tingling. Worse still, his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He removed the small bottle from his coat pocket and washed two of the bitter yellow pills down with a swallow of tepid coffee.

  Percy returned with a coffee pot. "See you've cleaned your plates. Ready for dessert?"

  Hoover patted his belt buckle. "Bring on the pie, Percy. That was a passable dinner." The special agent burped.

  The cook grinned. Like a possum, Hoover thought. "Glad you 'predated it."

  "Tasty sausages," Hoover said. "I'd like to try it again sometime, but I didn't see the S-Q special on the menu." He frowned. "I guess the 'S' is for sausage. What's the 'Q' stand for, 'queasy'?"

  Percy smiled broadly, displaying a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth. "Sarichi Cuquavi ain't gonna be on the menu. That," Percy said sarcastically, "is why I call it 'special.'"

  Hoover removed the paper napkin from his shirt and wiped at his chin. "My French is kind of rusty. What's it mean?"

  "Well," Percy frowned thoughtfully, "Sarichi Cuquavi is… them is Ute words."

  Hoover paled. "Did you say Ute?"

  "Don't ask me for more'n that." Percy held his palms up in a defensive gesture. "I understand it don't translate too good into American."

  A burly Ute rancher at the next table looked up from his barbecued chicken and laughed. "That's easy to translate. You want to know what it means?"

  Hoover buried his face in his hands and groaned. "No. Please don't tell me."

  The Ute, not to be denied the opportunity to display his bilingual abilities, told him.

  A wave of nausea rippled through Hoover's groin; he fought back a gag.

  Percy's eyes widened. This was news to him, but it served the cheap bastard right. Anyway, he had a twenty dollar bribe in his pocket and it was no crime to serve Native American dishes in his restaurant.

  As Percy hurried back to his grimy kitchen, Sam Parker returned from the rest room. He was alarmed to see James E. Hoover's face; it was the color of dirty cotton. And his hands shook.

  Hoover's body rippled with a great shudder. "Those damn Utes," he said between sobs, "you know what they did to me?" He ducked his head and made a low groaning sound. He wanted to vomit, but could not.

  Now, Parker noticed with an odd mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction, several customers were showing considerable interest in Hoover's behavior. Customers that could, if necessary, be called as witnesses in a departmental fitness hearing.

  Sam Parker put a hand on Hoover's trembling shoulder. "Sure, James. I know it's been tough." Parker nodded apologetically to the Ute family at the next table and whispered. "He's not well." The man grunted and returned his attention to a slab of greasy chicken, but his plump wife had lost all interest in her plate of Polish sausage and sauerkraut.

  Hoover was wiping at his eyes. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe…"

  Parker's problem was solved. "Don't worry James. The Bureau takes care of its own."

  Daisy Perika, who had watched Hoover savor every morsel, shuffled slowly down the Durango street to the spot where her niece had parked her aquamarine Saturn. She was twenty dollars poorer, but it had been a good investment. The sha-man's face ached from the strain, but she couldn't stop smiling.

  The solicitous niece helped the old woman into the sedan and drove away.

  Daisy was a good Catholic. She knew that revenge was wrong, but she rationalized that this was a special case. This FBI man had accused her of serving dog meat to a guest, and in doing so he had insulted the People. That could not go unanswered. Justice must be served. Sometimes, of course, justice could be served on a platter. With mashed potatoes and gravy. Now the shaman laughed. She laughed until streams of tears blinded her.

  Daisy's niece glanced at the elderly woman, but she dared not ask any questions. When this old woman had been up to something, it was best to remain ignorant.

  Daisy recalled Hoover's rapt expression as the special agent gobbled up the delectable sausages. She also remembered Dr. Schaid's alarmed expression when he heard her bizarre request. The animal doctor was worried about getting into trouble with the authorities. He had hesitated until she assumed her5 most solemn expression and insisted that the tissue specimens were needed for a secret Ute sacrificial rite. The matukach, who entertained absurd notions about mysterious Native American ceremonies, were so gullible.

  And, in a way, she had not lied. It had been a sacrifice. The neighborhood sarichi might be howling high notes at the moon tonight, but they sure wouldn't be chasing bitches in heat. Not after sacrificing their cuquavi!

  The shaman's laughter shook her small frame, leaving her weak and drained.

  37

  Scott Parris pulled the stiff collar of the leather jacket over his throat; he squinted against the wind-driven sleet that stung his eyes. He pushed his battered felt hat down until a stabbing pain from the fifteen stitches at the base of his right ear took his breath away.

  The rocky, treeless hillside was disfigured with intermittent clumps of dead sage and chamisa. The markers were starkly simple. This lonely place was not a cemetery. This was a graveyard. Forlorn acres where the bodies of the poor were interred in sixty-dollar plastic caskets paid for by the good citizens of La Plata County. It was a resting place for the unknown. The forgotten. The policeman had promised himself-he would never forget! Every year on this day, God willing, he would be here.

  This grave, like most of the others, had no tom
bstone. Just an aluminum tube supporting a plastic holder. He pulled a tumbleweed off the marker. The paper card behind the cracked cellophane window had a typed entry:

  HERBERT ECKER

  The anonymous typist had not bothered to enter the date of birth. Or of death. Parris looked over his shoulder, making sure he was alone. But there was no need for concern about privacy; hardly anyone visited this place. Especially on this day. He focused on the card in the plastic holder and held onto his hat brim as a gust of wind snatched at the dead weeds on the grave mound. The shrill voice of the wind promised a blizzard before the year was new.

  "Well, kid," he said hoarsely, "time rolls on down the road, and I guess we're along for the ride." The policeman felt enormously self-conscious, speaking over a grave… as if the dry bones could hear his voice. He removed his hat, braving the stinging crystals of ice.

  "It's already Christmas Eve. You can see I made it with a day to spare." His throat was tight; he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. He paused for a few seconds, taking deep breaths of the frigid air. A promise made. A debt unpaid. The little book was in his coat pocket, but he was determined not to use it. After endless hours of rehearsal, he would get it right. Word for word, from beginning to end. Scott Parris cleared his throat. And began…

  ' 'A bunch of the boys were whooping it up, in the Malamute Saloon; The kid that handles the music box was hitting a jag-time tune.…"

  FB2 document info

  Document ID: fbd-e7860c-ed05-7648-03b2-8628-1686-5db1f2

  Document version: 1

  Document creation date: 03.07.2013

  Created using: calibre 0.9.37, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software

  Document authors :

  James D. Doss

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