The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries)

by James D. Doss

  Parris lifted his foot and let the engine idle. “I found copies of Priscilla’s will. And yours.”

  A muscle twitched in Buster’s jaw. “We was talking about gettin’ married. She thought the wills was a good idea, so I said, ‘Hell yes, why not.’”

  “What’s the C stand for?”

  The cowboy tilted his head sideways. “Come again?”

  “Your middle name,” Parris said.

  He looked at his boots and kicked a pebble. “Chester, after my grandad. Pris didn’t much like ‘Buster’ or ‘Billy,’ so she called me Chester.”

  * * *

  When they were ten minutes up the road, Anne spoke without looking at her companion. “What was that all about? Did you mean what you said?”

  “Well,” he answered sheepishly, “I guess I wasn’t completely honest with the Thorpes. I shouldn’t have claimed that we both had a big breakfast when you ate like a sparrow. Coffee and toast isn’t enough to keep a horned toad alive.”

  She elbowed him lightly. “You know what I mean, silly. Are you really so sure Pacheco is the murderer? All you know for certain is that he was at the scene.…”

  “We have Pacheco cold. He killed the girl and the old rancher at Lone Pine. May take a few more with him when they try to pick him up.” He expected the journalist to pump him for information about the murder scene, but she didn’t. Probably, he mused, she had already picked up all she needed to know from Piggy. Was she testing him? Trying to learn how much he would withhold?

  “I think,” she said cautiously, “you should keep an eye on Waldo Thomson.”

  Parris set the speed control to sixty-five. “The kindly professor? Why’s that?”

  “He spends more money than he makes. A lot more. And he travels.”

  Parris raised an eyebrow. “Travels?”

  “To South America,” she said. “And not on university business.”

  “You see some connection to the Song homicide?”

  “Not yet,” she said sleepily. “But I’ve been checking him out for a long time.”

  “What about Professor Presley? He suspects Priscilla and Pacheco may have had some kind of … relationship. Maybe involving drugs.”

  “Harry Presley,” she said, “is the designated department gossip. Talks to anyone who’ll listen. He’s harmless.” Anne slid across the seat, close to him, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’m cold.”

  Odd, he thought, he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. “I’ll crank up the heater.”

  “No.” She shivered. “Not that kind of cold. Put your arm around me.”

  He did and she relaxed. It brought back old memories of long, romantic drives when he had first dated Helen. There was a picture in his mind of a red 1954 Pontiac convertible. Long walks on the lakeshore during warm summer evenings. Weekend trips to the Wisconsin Dells. Oddly, the memories did not conjure up pangs of guilt. Helen was finally gone; he was getting comfortable with this lovely woman. That, he decided, was good. Very good indeed.

  TEN

  For the third time, Parris read the sheet on William Chester Thorpe. A half dozen arrests for public drunkenness over the past five years, one for driving under the influence, another for public disturbance in a Las Cruces bar. Young Thorpe had, if the report was to be believed, bitten the “posterior third of the left ear” off a staff sergeant from Holloman Air Force Base. The records indicated a court-ordered psychiatric evaluation at a mental hospital in Las Vegas, but there was no information on a diagnosis. Probably the standard exam for a budding alcoholic who chewed off another drunk’s ear. Nothing on drug-related arrests. Maybe the dilation of the cowboy’s eyes had nothing to do with drugs. Maybe.

  As Parris considered the possibilities, the FBI report rolled off the fax. The prints on the screwdriver belonged to a man who had been arrested five years earlier in El Paso; a prostitute charged that he had broken her nose. The charges were dropped when the prostitute vanished before the trial date. The man’s name was Julio Pacheco.

  * * *

  Julio Pacheco hated to admit it, but he was lost. He had no map and was weary of bouncing over the rutted back roads. The afternoon sky had become so overcast that even his sense of direction was failing him. When he came to the paved two-lane where the gravel road ended, there was no choice but to turn back or chance being spotted by the police. He switched the engine off and considered his options with some care. In these desolate regions, one state patrol car typically had to cover as much as two or three thousand square miles. The American federales would have his description by now, maybe even know about the truck if the old rancher had managed to hitch a ride and find a telephone. On the other hand, the cops had lots of other problems to occupy their time.

  Julio twisted the ignition key and listened to the old engine crank three times and fire hesitantly before it finally roared to life. He turned left on the paved road and accelerated gradually until the speedometer needle hung just below fifty. He wouldn’t take any chances of getting stopped for a minor infraction. He had killed the dog, and everyone knew that Saint Francis loved animals. The saints, like any group, hung together. If good Brother Francis was upset, the other saints would not be smiling on Julio Pacheco.

  The thought of annoying the meek and mild Francis was an unsettling one. He needed some diversion. Julio turned the dashboard radio on; he twisted the tuning knob to find something to soothe his raw nerves. He dialed past a Spanish-language station without interest, chuckled when he tuned in the choppy, incomprehensible syllables of a Navajo announcer, then paused at a country-western broadcast. This porridge was not too hot or too cold; it was just right! The music gradually transported him into a deeply satisfying melancholy; the Mexican threw his head back and wailed along with Willie as tears welled up in his dark eyes: “Bluuue eyes a-cryin’ in the raaaiiiin…”

  Moments after the song was finished, while the announcer was enthusiastically urging his listeners to come by and “have yourself a look at Happy Jack’s fine selection of brand-spankin’ new Chevrolet trucks,” Julio was overtaken by a white GMC Blazer with a pair of red lights mounted on its roof. The words JICARILLA APACHE POLICE circled the tribal logo painted on the door.

  The bronzed man under the Smokey hat gave him a quick once-over as he passed. Julio flashed his most disarming smile and nodded politely. He chewed on the tip of his mustache as the patrol car gradually pulled ahead and then disappeared over a rise. The Mexican, who had not been inside a church since he was a child, crossed himself with great ceremony and thanked all the saints whose names he could remember for his deliverance. He assured them that he had never really doubted them, not even when the policeman had appeared so soon after he decided to risk the paved road. He added, as a postscript, that he was truly sorry about the rancher’s dog, just in case anyone in particular was upset. It was best, he knew, not to anger the saints, lest they become vindictive. A saint in a good mood could be a great help to a poor man in trouble, but cross them and you might as well say your prayers!

  A mile ahead, the tribal policeman’s brow was furrowed with concentration. He had seen most of the old beat-up pickups in this sector, but that one had Colorado plates. He had memorized the number and was in the process of scribbling it into his notebook. Most likely just someone passing through, but a small voice in his subconscious kept nagging. Did the number on the plate sound familiar? Then he remembered the morning briefing. He thumbed the key on his mike, put in his call, and waited to hear the dispatcher answer in a bored monotone. He made his request. “Uh-huh … find the bulletin on that guy wanted up in Colorado. That’s right. The Mexican with the all-points on him. Read me the description on the stolen pickup and give me the plates.” Seconds later, the policeman hit his brakes and did a screeching U-turn on the narrow two-lane.

  He made another call and it was a done deal. The dispatcher would alert the state and county cops, and they would set up a roadblock. There were no side roads worth mentioning for twenty miles. T
he Indian policeman smiled at the prospect of some action. He had not fired his gun on duty since the fat Colombian had crash-landed the twin Cessna on the Jicarilla reservation and tried to escape with nearly $2 million in hundred-dollar bills in a pair of oversized duffel bags. The foreigner, once cornered, had dropped the duffel bags and tried to shoot it out with his Czech submachine gun. The Indian had fallen to a prone position, just as he had been trained in the Marine Corps. He had aligned the scope cross hairs on the fat man’s red T-shirt and pulled the trigger slowly as the Colombian’s slugs fell to earth a few yards in front of his position. The Apache policeman had dropped his target with a single 30-06 copper-plated slug through his left lung. It was more fun than hunting elk. Elk didn’t shoot back.

  He hoped this hunted Mexican would panic, make a run for the badlands. That would be great fun—an excuse to shoot his tires out, then hunt him on foot. In his growing excitement, the Jicarilla Apache policeman was talking to himself: “Whatever you try wetback, unless you can make a pickup truck fly, your ass is mine!”

  He imagined the envy of his fellow officers and the pleasure of his captain when he brought in the desperado who had eluded the net thrown out by the state cops and the Bureau whiz kids in their three-piece suits. It would be especially satisfying to succeed where the FBI had failed and then rub their noses in it!

  It was less than a minute before he met the old pickup. He hit the emergency flashers and swerved to block the road. He watched the pickup pull to the shoulder.

  Pacheco shifted into neutral and put his foot on the brake; he pushed the latch button on the glove compartment and removed the rancher’s single-action revolver and a half box of .22-caliber hollow-point cartridges. It would be bad enough to be taken by a posse, but it was unthinkable to be arrested by a single policeman. It would be embarrassing; his hardcase friends would laugh when they heard that Julio had been picked up by only one little Indio federale. He would give a good account of himself; his family and friends could expect no more than this.

  Pacheco considered the situation as he checked to make sure the cylinder was fully loaded with long-rifle hollow-point cartridges. The Apache cop was evidently in no hurry. That meant one thing: Roadblocks were being set up. After the arrest, thirty years in an American cárcel with an assortment of lunatics, misfits, and queers. The Mexican sighed and resigned himself to whatever his immediate fate might be, but he promised himself that he would never go to prison. Never! He cocked the hammer on the single-action Ruger and shifted the worn transmission into low gear.

  The Indian policeman keyed his mike to report the situation to the dispatcher, but the suspect’s truck was now moving—accelerating! Surely, the Indian thought, that crazy Mexican didn’t think he would get away, not in that old pile of rusty nuts and bolts. The Apache policeman unbuttoned the flap on his holster and removed his revolver with the thought of blowing a front tire off the old pickup. He was expecting the Mexican to make a turn and present a good profile of the tires when the pickup roared across the road and headed directly for the Blazer. The Indian cursed and ground the gears as he attempted to shift the Blazer into reverse. Too late. He was releasing the clutch as the pickup hit him head-on at twenty miles an hour. The policeman’s head smacked into the windshield.

  As his vision gradually cleared, the policeman blinked several times at the grinning outlaw, who had his head poked into the Blazer window. “I hate to be critical, Indio policía,” the Mexican scolded with mock severity, “but you should practice the first rule of operating a motor vehicle: Fasten your seat belt. It’s just as well you bumped your head, though; now the Bad Mexican may not have to send you to the happy hunting ground.”

  The policeman swept his hand over the seat in a futile attempt to locate his service revolver, then realized that the Mexican was cheerfully waving the weapon in front of his face.

  “Next thing you got to learn, Sitting Bull, is a good federale should never lose his firearm.”

  The Indian glared at his opponent. “Sitting Bull was Hunkpapa Sioux, you Mexican thug. I’m an Apache.”

  The Mexican laughed heartily, then put on a sad expression. “Too bad we had to meet like this, Geronimo.” With this, he stuck both revolvers under his belt, opened the car door, and dragged the Indian out by his heels, giving his head another sound thump when it hit the pavement. When the dazed tribal policeman attempted to get to his feet, Pacheco waited until he was on one knee, then felled him with a heavy left hook. For a brief moment, the Apache could see the blacktop rushing toward his face. Then his world went completely dark.

  Pacheco backed the pickup away from the Blazer and was relieved to see that no serious damage had been done to either vehicle. He dropped into low gear and nosed the pickup off the highway into a dry ravine that was deep enough to hide it from road traffic. He dragged the Indian well off the road and, true to his habit, placed the man under a clump of brush that would provide moderate shade from the afternoon sun. He removed all the greenbacks, which totaled more than sixty dollars, from the policeman’s wallet. The Mexican helped himself to his victim’s wristwatch, pocketknife, and some loose change. For the first time, he noticed the name tag on the policeman’s jacket. It announced that the officer was Sgt. K. T. MacPherson. That, he thought, didn’t sound like an Indian name at all. “Sounds more like a Scotchman than a ’Pache,” Pacheco muttered suspiciously, as if the Indian might be part of some dark conspiracy against him. In the Mexican’s world, nothing was without meaning. Could this be an omen? He tried in vain to remember whether there were any saints that hailed from Scotland, saints who might disapprove of his shabby treatment of Sergeant MacPherson.

  He removed the Indian’s jacket, which had the tribal police shield pinned to its left breast pocket, and covered his victim with a rough, rank-smelling horse blanket from the bed of the pickup truck. Pacheco tried on the jacket and was pleased to discover that it might have been tailored for his own frame. A man who drove a policeman’s car, after all, should look like a policeman! MacPherson’s hat was two sizes too large and dropped to his ears.

  Within five minutes, Pacheco, with his foot on the floorboard, was pushing the Blazer at seventy-five miles an hour in the opposite direction from the presumed roadblock. His good fortune was holding; the gas tank gauge read almost full. He listened to the police radio and chuckled at the dispatcher’s urgent calls for Sergeant MacPherson. The Blazer had a compass mounted on the dashboard. The Mexican turned off the highway and headed south across the high plateau. He had enjoyed the encounter with the Indian. It had not been a good thing to slug the old rancher, but the young Indian had been a suitable adversary. He had outsmarted and outfought this descendent of Geronimo. For the first time in days, Pacheco was genuinely happy to be alive. He sang loudly and off-key as he drove across the rocky terrain. It was a sad Argentinian ballad about a young vaquero who found his wife sleeping with another man; honor compelled the betrayed husband to cut out his wife’s heart and force-feed it to her unfortunate lover. The song brought enormous contentment to the Mexican’s heart.

  * * *

  “Hi que cabrón,” he muttered. The unexpected sound had startled him. Pacheco was nearly forty miles from where he had left the Indian policeman, when he heard the throaty whump-whump echoing off the steep sides of the red-rock mesas. It was a familiar, if not welcome, sound. He had heard it the last time he had crossed the border near Las Palomas. Then, it had been a border patrol copter. Now, he expected, it would be the state police, maybe even the National Guard. He braked the Blazer to a crawl and stuck his head out the window. The copter was a good mile off to the northwest, hovering at a thousand feet above the floor of the high plateau. He shut off the engine; no point in wasting gas. Pacheco considered the situation. If the copter approached, he could take a shot with the Indian cop’s revolver or the shotgun mounted behind the seat, but there was no chance of doing any useful damage unless they were within a hundred yards. Anyway, if he had been spotted, they would have
already radioed his position in. He could keep moving, changing directions, complicating their plans to intercept him until dark, which was still hours away. There would be no moon until past midnight. He might have a chance of losing himself in the badlands. If he left the car, the Americans might bring dogs to sniff him out. Julio shivered at the thought of bloodhounds, imagining sharp yellow canines under drooling black lips. He made his decision: no point in prolonging the run until he was exhausted and the dogs came. It would be better to fight the men while he still had some strength left. He suspected it would not be long until the encounter. Morning at the latest. Julio prayed to the saints to preserve him from the dogs. If they would do this one last thing, he promised, he would take on all the gringos and Indians with no further request for help. He felt confident that his prayers would be answered; with such a deal, how could the saints refuse? If Death came calling, he would die like a man. His relatives would have no cause for shame. Pacheco cranked the engine and headed southeast toward a shallow sandstone canyon, moving slowly to keep the dust trail at a minimum.

  ELEVEN

  Julio Pacheco was, ever so gradually, relaxing. The hunted man had not heard the sound of the helicopter since the sun had dipped low over the Continental Divide, casting long, indistinct shadows behind stunted junipers and sandstone boulders. Maybe the pilot of the copter had not seen him. Perhaps the saints had heard his prayers and were in a generous mood. He had expected to be stopped when he crossed Interstate 40 at Acomita, but there was not a policeman in sight. Pacheco hoped that Death had more pressing business; perhaps another less fortunate soul would feel the sharp edge of his broad scythe tonight. With new confidence, he topped the tank off at a Shamrock station and bought a handful of candy bars. The hunted man had been alert for any unusual activity as he drove south across the Acoma reservation in the Apache policeman’s Blazer, but he had seen less than a half dozen souls and was regarded with nothing more than casual glances. He was relieved when he drove over the dry wash of the Rio Colorado, which formed the southern boundary of the reservation. The Rio Salada was also dry, but this dusty riverbed marked the beginning of the truly desolate country. Perhaps the Yanquí lawmen had lost his trail. Julio began to entertain hopes that he would live to see his mother. Once it was dark, before the moon showed its orange face over the rough peaks of the Sierra Lucero, they would have little chance of finding him. Safety was only hours away; the Mexican border was less than two hundred miles as the raven flies.