The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries)

by James D. Doss

  A storm was slipping down the coast from Maine; Thomson wouldn’t use up precious vacation days to endure a blizzard in Washington. No. The physicist was going to the capital on business and she was determined to discover just what that business was.

  * * *

  She had just stepped out of the shower when someone tapped on her door. Anne slipped on a soft cotton robe and opened the door until the brass chain caught. It was, as she had expected, Freddie, the bellman. She regarded his flaccid freckled face with a forced expression of assurance. “You have something for me, Freddie?”

  He grinned and gawked at the part in her robe. She tugged at the garment, closing the gap, and he reluctantly switched his attention to a scrap of paper in his hand. “It’s that guy you asked about, Thomson. Occupant of room twelve-thirteen.”

  “So? What did you learn?”

  “Checked in yesterday afternoon at three-fifteen. Checkout date is open, but he expects to be here at least a week. Arrived from National Airport in a Hertz rental—Lincoln Town Car. Asked for seven A.M. wake-up call. Wants breakfast sent to his room at eight A.M. sharp. Ham and scrambled eggs, wheat toast and marmalade, decaf coffee.” He held out a pudgy hand. “You got that Mr. Jackson for me?”

  She fumbled in her wallet, found the bill, and passed it to him with two fingers, cringing at the thought of touching his hand. “I need to know who he calls. You bring me the numbers as soon as they’re posted on the computer. No delays. If I don’t get the word within twenty minutes of the call, no reward.”

  The bellman slipped the greenback in his hip pocket and faked an expression of uncertainty. “Hey lady, I don’t know. I don’t normally have access to the telephone billing terminal. This kind of thing could cost me my job.”

  “No problem. If you can’t manage it, I have other means.” It was a bluff, but Freddie was unsure. He appraised her thoughtfully and decided not to pass up the bucks.

  “Okay. I’ll try, but I don’t come on duty until noon. Maybe I can get a buddy to cover for me tomorrow morning. One Mr. Jackson per phone number, deal?”

  “Deal. Unless Thomson calls for pizza. Don’t try to pull any fast ones. I know this guy’s business, who he’s likely to call. I just don’t know when. You pass me a fake number and I’ll know it. The outfit I work for won’t like it. Fool around and we’ll feed you to the hotel management.”

  Freddie’s mouth dropped open; his Adam’s apple pulsed. Anne wondered if she had overdone it. Easy does it. Too tough and you’ll scare him off. “Deal straight with me and I’ll have more work for you.” Anne closed the door before the man could respond, shuddering as she turned the security bolt. This guy was generic pond scum. She couldn’t wait to get the job finished and return to Colorado. She counted the greenbacks left in her wallet. Most of her expenses would be on plastic and could be put off for a month. If the bellman came up with more than a half dozen phone numbers, her hard cash would be gone. That, Anne decided, was a future bridge to cross. She fervently hoped that her quarry was up to no good—enough no good for a wire story that would be picked up by the major papers. If Thomson was clean, this expensive little escapade would take a long time to pay for and much longer to forget.

  The freckled bellman muttered darkly as he punched the button for the elevator. “Smart-assed bitch. I’ll teach her to mess around with Freddie.” He grinned with self-satisfaction. He knew exactly what to do!

  * * *

  Waldo Thomson slept with the samples under his pillow and the small revolver on the small table by his bedside. He did not sleep soundly; he dreamed of noisy violence, pools of congealed blood, and dark chambers of unknown horror. He got up twice to check the security lock on the door. Several times during the long night, he anxiously groped under the pillow for the plastic bag that contained the broken halves of the dime-sized disk. After his wake-up call jarred him to consciousness, he repacked the precious samples into the money belt. He hung the belt over the plastic shower door while he stood under the needle spray. Thomson was fully dressed when his breakfast arrived, but he poked at the scrambled eggs with little interest and managed to consume only a few bites of the salty “Farm-Fresh Virginia Country Ham,” which had surely arrived at the hotel restaurant in a can.

  * * *

  At 8:40 the following morning, Anne heard a tapping. She opened the door with the safety chain in place until she saw the uniform of a bellman. This one was black and looked to be a few notches higher on the food chain than Freddie. This young man had a sullen expression as he offered her a blue envelope emblazoned with the hotel’s return address in raised lettering. “Freddie say I should bring this.”

  She found a small sheet of pale blue paper in the envelope; two telephone numbers were scrawled in ballpoint. One had been made at 8:22, another at 8:28 A.M. Anne studied the young man’s face. “This better not be a rip-off. I already explained to Freddie…”

  He raised his palms in protest. “I dunno what it is, lady. I don’t axe nuthin’. Freddie say bring it, so I bring it.”

  She passed him a pair of twenties and hoped this wasn’t a scam. If it was, there was little she could do about it. When the door was closed, she removed an earring and dialed the first number on the scrap of paper. There were three rings before a woman answered: “Zimmelhauf Enterprises. How may we help you?”

  * * *

  Waldo Thomson was ushered into the president’s office by a receptionist. The balding middle-aged man behind the desk got up and held a limp hand out to his guest. “Zimmelhauf, Fritz Zimmelhauf. Pleasure to meet with you.”

  Thomson dropped the man’s hand after a perfunctory shake. “I’m pressed for time. Let’s get down to business.”

  “Certainly. I understand you have a rush job.”

  “You got it right,” the physicist snapped. “You tell me precisely what this stuff is made of within forty-eight hours and, in addition to your usual fee, you’ll get a ten-thousand-dollar bonus. In cash. Off the record.”

  Zimmelhauf bit his stubby cigar in half, then threw it away. He grabbed Thomson’s hand in an enthusiastic grip. “If we don’t produce that information for you in forty-eight hours, you can kick my ass from here to Baltimore!”

  “Baltimore,” Thomson said with a cruel grin, “isn’t nearly far enough.”

  * * *

  Anne Foster watched from behind dark sunglasses. Two men finally appeared at the front door and shook hands. Thomson slid under the wheel of the Lincoln while the shorter man made a few parting remarks. She waited until the Town Car was lost in traffic before she dared approach the entrance to Zimmelhauf Enterprises. The receptionist, who seemed to be very busy, was nevertheless polite.

  Anne removed the dark glasses and presented a dazzling smile that had no effect whatever. “I’m Anne … Forbes,” she said, “with the Post.”

  This took a moment to register. “You’re a reporter? With the Washington Post?” The receptionist patted her hair into place, as if the visitor might produce a camera at any moment.

  “You’ll just have to forgive me for barging in like this. I know I should have called and made an appointment, but I’m interviewing everyone who has a business in the Industrial Park, and I finished my morning appointment early. Thought I’d fit you in before lunch. We’re going to have a report in the Business Section in a couple of Sundays, describing the wide range of high-tech business in this area. Is there someone here who could describe your operation? I’d be so grateful, and I’d hate to leave Zimmelhauf Enterprises out of our story.”

  The receptionist was practically wringing her hands in frustration. “Oh dear, not today, I’m afraid. We have an important contract, and the boss has put most of the staff on overtime. I just know Dr. Zimmelhauf won’t have time to speak to you today. Maybe if you come back next week…”

  “An important contract? Maybe I could do a sidebar. Could you tell me—”

  “Oh gracious no!” The receptionist paled. “I shouldn’t have said a word. We get lots of governmen
t jobs, you know, and some are very hush-hush. Please don’t let on that I ever mentioned it. Dr. Zimmelhauf would be just livid!”

  Anne smiled a conspirator’s smile. “I’ll promise not to mention where I heard it if you’ll tell me one thing. Does this job have anything to do with the gentleman who left a few minutes ago?”

  The receptionist bit her lip, glanced to her left and right, and then whispered, “Yes. Now please forget that we talked about it.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Thomson was ushered into the attorney’s plush corner office at precisely three o’clock. The young man, whose slender athletic form was clothed in an expensive tailored suit, shook his hand with just the appropriate measure of enthusiasm. A tray of silver decanters, china cups, gourmet crackers, and small cubes of imported cheese were on a conference table. The attorney poured his visitor a cup of Celestial Seasonings Red Zinger tea into a delicate cup decorated with a swarm of tiny blue butterflies.

  “I recall, from our telephone conversation, that you believe … that this is about a breakthrough of some sort.”

  The physicist accepted the fragile cup and sniffed at the fragrant aroma. “The patent application must be filed immediately.”

  The attorney leaned forward, clasped his hands, and placed his elbows on the thick plate glass that protected the varnished surface of his immaculate walnut desk. “You realize that we have a huge backlog of work.…”

  The visitor swallowed a sip of the hot red brew. “Sure I do. But you’re going to move this job to the front of the queue.”

  The attorney cleared his throat nervously. “I rather doubt that would be possible.”

  The physicist removed a thick manila envelope from his briefcase and tossed it onto the attorney’s desk. The young man blinked at the envelope; a dark vein in his forehead began to pulsate. “That,” Thomson said, “is stuffed with brand-new twenty-dollar bills. Five hundred twenty-dollar bills.”

  The young man touched the envelope; his hand trembled. “We don’t normally take our fee in cash.…”

  “That,” Thomson said dryly, “isn’t your fee. Let’s call it a tip. Anybody asks me, I know nothing about it.”

  “I should imagine,” the attorney said as he dropped the envelope into a desk drawer and turned a key in the lock, “I could work on this at night.”

  “I thought,” the physicist replied without expression, “you’d see the logic of it.”

  * * *

  Thomson had barely turned the latch on his hotel room door when someone knocked. He opened the door, to find a uniformed bellman who was twisting his hands in agitation. “Hi. I’m Freddie.” The bellman glanced nervously up and down the hall; his pale face was wet with perspiration. “Can we talk, sir?”

  Thomson took one step backward. “Talk? You and I? Whatever about?”

  The bellman, not waiting for an invitation, brushed past the scientist and pushed the door shut.

  The professor’s voice was shrill. “Now see here … what is this all about?”

  “Maybe,” Freddie began, “we can do some business. I picked up some information you might be interested in.”

  Thomson eyed the brazen intruder cautiously. “What kind of information?”

  Freddie grinned his toothy possum’s grin. “It’s this redhead on the third floor. Good-lookin’ fox. Been askin’ a lot of questions about you. Make it worth my while, I’ll tell you what I know about her.”

  * * *

  Thomson hardly noticed the bellman’s silent departure. The physicist stared at the name on the paper without comprehension. Ms. Anne Foster, 211 Copper Lane, Granite Creek, Colorado. The name was vaguely familiar; his mind raced through its memory files to match the name to a person. The appropriate array of neurons fired. Everything clicked into place. Of course. Anne Foster. The name over the Sunday column in the Granite Creek Adviser. The attractive redhead who had interviewed everyone in the Physics Department about Priscilla Song’s untimely demise.

  He had followed the instructions; everything had been going so well. Thomson sat down heavily on the bed and glared at the paper as if, by some wizardry of concentration, he could force it to yield more information. What was a reporter from a small-town newspaper doing in Washington? The check-in time on the photocopy indicated that she had arrived a day after he had. Was it an incredible coincidence that she was here, in the same hotel, at the same time? He calmed himself and considered the probabilities. The woman was probably here to cover some news event; it surely must be a coincidence. The reporter had seen him in the lobby, had her professional curiosity aroused, and bribed the bellman to get some information. But why? She couldn’t possibly have any idea of his real purpose in Washington, so she must be fishing. And what if she did manage to learn something about his business? In a short time, it would all be public knowledge, anyway. A few days after the patent was filed, there would be no more reason for skulking around. It would be time for the big announcement! But in spite of these rationalizations, the physicist had a sense that something was terribly wrong.

  When he entered the hotel dining room, Thomson was delighted to see the small contingent from Rocky Mountain Polytechnic having an early dinner. Arnold Dexter was dominating the conversation; Harry Presley was attempting to crack the shell of a lobster. Thomson had been so completely preoccupied with his urgent business that he had forgotten about the North American Physical Society meeting. The NAPS registration booth was already signing in some early arrivals and the plenary session would begin precisely at eight the next morning. As Thomson approached their table, Presley looked up and grinned his corpselike smile. Arnold Dexter got to his feet, made a perfunctory comment, and offered his hand. Presley swallowed a mouthful of red wine and waved a thin yellow hand in greeting. “Good to see you, Waldo. How are things going?”

  “Things,” Thomson replied without conviction, “are going well.”

  * * *

  It had been a slow day. Parris was in his stocking feet. He had opened a new can of saddle soap and was applying the soft cream liberally to his stiff new boots. It was a simple pleasure, working the yellow soap deep into the leather, producing a soft boot that would expand to fit itself to the shape of his oversized foot.

  “Chief!”

  He looked up in dismay to see the ample figure of E. C. “Piggy” Slocum blocking the doorway into his office. “What is it?”

  Piggy mumbled something about a phone call and left, slamming the door behind him. Slocum was acting as dispatcher; he preferred coming to the chief’s office rather than using the intercom, because the array of buttons confused him.

  Parris pushed the lighted button on the telephone console and pressed the receiver to his ear. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah? Some kind of greeting. Thought I’d get more than that.”

  The voice shot whippets of electricity through his body. “Anne! I’ve been leaving messages on your machine.…”

  “I’m in Washington. Well, not exactly. I’m in Maryland, but inside the Beltway.”

  Parris leaned back and propped his stockinged feet on his desk. “Washington? Whatever takes you to that cauldron of confusion?”

  There was a pregnant pause before she answered. Parris could feel something coming. Something he wouldn’t like. Did she have a new job? A job that would separate them almost as absolutely as he was separated from Helen? Was this call the kiss-off?

  “I’m here on business.”

  “So. Business, huh? Find yourself a better job?” He tried to sound as if it didn’t matter.

  “New job? Don’t be silly.” She laughed, and he felt relief flowing over him like a waterfall. “I came here intending to follow Waldo Thomson, thought he might be a player in this drug thing at the university. Had hopes he would meet with a sinister Colombian, but nothing so interesting,” she continued playfully. “He visited a couple of local firms and met with ordinary citizens. It’s probably a snipe hunt, but I’m going to do a little more digging before I head west.”

&nbs
p; He felt it, a hint of the Dread. Cold fingers, bony fingers, lightly touching the back of his neck. “Look, sweetheart, you’ve got no business chasing after someone who might be involved in the international drug traffic. Leave that sort of nonsense to the professionals.”

  This brought a slight edge to her voice. “I am a professional. Anyway, it looks like he’s here on some type of ordinary business. I’ll explain it all when I see you.”

  The Dread settled into his abdomen; he fought against the desire to yell into the mouthpiece, but his voice was hard as flint when he responded. “You don’t seem to understand. If Thomson is involved in some kind of drug deal, you could get yourself—”

  “Don’t fret about me. I’m the soul of caution. I’ll check things out a bit more, then head home.”

  He was on his feet now. Forgetting his bare feet, he kicked his desk in frustration and then yelped with pain.

  Anne was alarmed. “What is it? What happened? Are you hurt?”

  Parris sat down and rubbed his big toe. “Old football injury,” he muttered darkly, “nothing compared to what’ll happen when I get hold of you.”

  “So,” she replied in a mock-seductive whisper, “are you going to spank me?”

  In spite of his anger and the dull throbbing in his bent toe, he grinned. “You’re a nutcase. You know that? I want a full report when you get back, but take care.…”

  “Well, worrywart, now I know who not to call when I need a cheerful word. You certainly know how to ruin a girl’s day.”

  He closed his eyes and tried to paint an image of her face. “Come on home. We’ll have a nice dinner, spend some time together.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You know … that’s all I’ve been thinking about. See you in a couple of days.”

  * * *

  He touched the flame to a fresh cigarette and took a deep draw. It was bitterly, painfully cold. He was buttoning his coat at his neck when he sensed its presence. The Voice was usually inside his head, but now it seemed to originate near his left shoulder, as if the formless presence drifted along beside him. He glanced to his left and imagined a brief glimpse of a misty figure, but this vision disappeared in the whirling flakes of crystalline snow. He did not interrupt his brisk pace along the frigid street; he was eager to get back to the hotel. “She’s here,” he told the Voice. “I’ve seen her.”