The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries)

by James D. Doss

  Piggy barked over the radio. “Paramedics on the way, Chief. They know where his place is.”

  Parris was flooded with relief. “Good work, Slocum. Now listen carefully. Call the Southern Ute Tribal Police at Ignacio, then contact the FBI. Tell them that a Ute woman, Daisy Perika, is in considerable danger. Someone is planning to kill her. Male Caucasian. May be in a late-model half-ton pickup, light blue or green: Didn’t make the plates. Mrs. Perika doesn’t have a telephone, but the tribal police will know where she lives. Do you have that written down?”

  Corporal Slocum pointed at his temple. “Got it all right here, Chief. I’ll get right on this.” Piggy was enjoying this assignment. Real big-time police work! He had found a ballpoint, but it wasn’t working all that well. No problem. He could remember everything!

  Parris continued. “I’ll stay here with the victim until the paramedics arrive, then I’ll head for the Ute reservation and check on Mrs. Perika.”

  “Roger, Chief. Anything else?”

  “No. Just make those calls. On the double.”

  Parris hung the microphone on its chrome hook. When the pressure was on, maybe Piggy would get his act together.

  * * *

  Piggy squinted at the blue scribbles on the yellow pad, then searched his memory. Pickup truck. Indians. Someone going to be killed. Hot damn! This was the real thing. What, exactly, had the chief said? Oh yes, call the Ute Tribal Police. Piggy dialed Information and nervously banged his ballpoint on the desk while he waited.

  A young woman’s voice responded. “City please?”

  “Ain’t no city. Gimmee the number for the Ute Injun reservation po-leece.”

  “Which reservation, sir?”

  “The damned Ute reservation. Let’s get a move on now, girl. This here is a freakin’ po-leece emergency.”

  “Which reservation do you want, sir? There are the Ute Mountain Utes and—”

  Piggy interrupted. “That’s it. Just gimmee the number, sweetheart, and make it snappy.” The next voice he heard originated from the bowels of a computer. Piggy dialed the number and thumped his fingertips on the desk while the telephone rang in Towaoc.

  “Hello there, this is Officer Slocum, Granite Creek PD. Wanted to give you a warnin’. One of your wimmen is in big trouble. Yeah. Somebody’s on the way down there to kill her, I guess. Sure I do. Her name is…” He squinted his little porcine eyes at the faint ink markings on the yellow paper. “Name is Daisy Paprika. And you better get your asses in gear, ’cause this particular bad actor already shot up a white man here in our neck o’ the woods.”

  * * *

  Less than thirty minutes passed before the Granite Creek Rescue Squad’s all-terrain ambulance arrived; it had seemed like hours. Claude Potter-Evans had not spoken; the intervals between the old man’s rasping breaths were growing longer; his lips had turned a pale blue. He was slipping away. The paramedics who took charge of the bleeding man were businesslike and efficient; they had an IV feeding plasma into a vein in his arm even before they lifted him onto a stainless-steel gurney.

  Parris didn’t like the ominous tone of their comments as they pushed the gurney into the rear of the ambulance and fitted a transparent oxygen mask over the old man’s drawn face, which was now of grayish hue. “Pulse thirty-two and weak,” the freckle-faced girl announced curtly to her colleague. “Pressure eighty-five over forty and falling,” the curly-haired young man replied as he released the pressure on the cuff and removed a heavy pair of shears from his black bag. “We’ll get his volume up with the saline; let’s get those rags off and stop the bleeding.”

  Parris put his hands on Anne’s shoulders. “I’ve got to get down to the reservation, find the Perika woman’s home. I’ll drop you off in town. You should go home, try to get some rest, and—”

  Her eyes flashed. “Forget it. I’m coming with you.”

  He adopted a firm tone. “You’re in no condition, and besides, this is strictly police business now. If I run into this nut, there could be—”

  She was not to be dissuaded. “Your people have already alerted the tribal police by now. I heard you call it in. If Thomson is on the reservation, they’ll have him locked up by the time we show up. I want a chance to talk to Daisy Perika, to apologize for publishing her name.” Left unspoken was the fact that Anne was now a part of her own story. Thomson couldn’t last much longer, and she wanted to be there when he was run to ground. It was no longer merely a matter of journalistic interest; this delicate woman with the pale skin wanted to smell the blood.

  Parris had felt her shoulders stiffen under his hands. He could drop her off in Granite Creek, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good. This stubborn journalist would simply follow him to the Southern Ute reservation. He considered the implications of this situation and made a decision; it would be better to keep her close to him. He was feeling very protective, but having her nearby was important for other, more elemental reasons. And she was right. The Southern Ute Tribal Police would drop everything to protect one of their women against a crazed outsider.

  He pulled her close. “You win. Let’s get on down the road, then.”

  Once they were on paved road, Parris pushed the four-wheel-drive Explorer to the margins; the speedometer needle danced against the eighty-five mark on straight-aways. The tires complained with a high-pitched squeal as the vehicle careened around the mountain curves. He remembered the city manager’s refusal to pay for new tires until the tread depth was down to one-eighth of an inch, and prayed that the rubber wouldn’t peel off.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Daisy Perika had felt the Presence since her small lunch of posole and fried corn bread. She had tried to abolish the feeling by watching the television, but even the interview of a San Diego couple who had just returned from their voyage to the hidden planet “Terra II” (it was in the same orbit as the Earth, but always on the opposite side of the sun from Terra I!) was not enough to hold her interest. She switched off the set, opened the trailer home’s door, and stepped out on the small wooden porch. When she saw it, she gasped and clasped her hand over her throat.

  An angry dark cloud bank, a billowing, rolling, “masculine” vapor, was slipping over the rim of Three Sisters Mesa. The old woman pulled her knitted shawl more tightly over her shoulders and watched the shadowy haze eject misty fingers toward the mesa walls, as if to anchor itself onto the towers that were the Three Sisters’ stony forms. This was a sinister omen. It was not the actual Presence, but it was a precursor of the Darkness to come.

  She heard his light step, then saw his gray eyes, his panting muzzle. The creature, which she knew was no animal, at least not in the usual sense, was waiting expectantly at the edge of the clearing. This was not a coyote; this was Coyote! The shaman closed her eyes and relaxed, waiting to see the vision that would surely come. There was a half-darkness for a brief moment, and then the phantasms danced in front of her closed eyes. Red and green, fire and feathers. The message from the dwarf was clear and unmistakable. Darkness approached and an old woman, even a Dreamer who conversed with the pitukupf, could not delay its coming.

  * * *

  At Capote Lake, Parris hit the brakes and turned the squad car off Route 160 onto State Road 151. Chimney Rock loomed over the western horizon, a gray-brown sentinel of stone penetrating the misty clouds. He fumbled in his wallet until he found the scrap of paper with Daisy’s directions. Route 160 was the top of a T, Route 151 was the vertical bar. Halfway down the vertical section was an exit that pointed to the west. Daisy had scribbled “Spirit Canyon”; an X marked the location of her home. He slammed the breaks, making a skidding right turn on a gravel road and over a wooden bridge that crossed the splashing Piedra. Once across the river, the road forked to the west and north. He took the west fork and rattled along a road that had been made worse by the corrugated tracks of a road grader. The turn off the gravel road took him down a rutted dirt lane that meandered through a sparse stand of juniper and piñon. The ruts were wet from the
rain that had preceded the snow; Parris shifted into four-wheel drive and low gear to spare Anne the bone-jarring effect as the Explorer bounced along the lane. They saw the lights from the old woman’s trailer before it was possible to see the home itself. When he turned the last bend in the lane, the silhouette of the mobile home was stark against the remnants of pale yellow light glowing in the western sky. He had expected to see a Southern Ute Tribal Police car, but the yard that surrounded the forlorn-looking domicile was as empty as the twilight sky. An aluminum door over a small wooden porch was swinging in harmony with the gusting wind. Parris switched on the spotlight mounted on the roof of the Explorer; he swept the beam over the yard but saw nothing.

  He tried to sound hopeful. “I’d guess the tribal police have taken Mrs. Perika to a safe place. Probably already picked our man up … if he even showed.”

  Anne shivered. “Why would she leave her lights on … and the door open?”

  “Folks leave their lights on to discourage burglars. Maybe she pushed the door shut and it didn’t latch.” Would Anne buy this explanation?

  Parris thumbed the selector on the radio transceiver until he had the frequency for the Colorado State Police. The state cops could relay a message to Piggy, find out whether Slocum had gotten through to the Southern Ute Tribal Police. It would be nice to know why Daisy’s trailer appeared to have been abandoned in a hurry, why the Ute police weren’t here to meet him. He pressed his mike button, reset the squelch, and made several attempts to raise someone. There was heavy static, a few garbled words, but no clear answer.

  Parris unclipped the Remington pump shotgun from its mount on the rear of the front seat. He unlocked the glove compartment and found a flashlight, an unopened box of twelve-gauge 00 buckshot and a half-full box of one-ounce slug loads. He was able to push five of the three-inch buckshot shells into the magazine. He dropped a half dozen slug loads into his jacket pocket.

  He removed the snub-nosed Smith & Wesson from his shoulder holster, checked the cartridges, and offered it to Anne. “Get under the wheel. I’ve got to check this place out. If you see anyone except Mrs. Perika, burn rubber out of here. If anyone threatens you, just point and pull the trigger.” She accepted the .38 between finger and thumb, as if it were a viper that would bite, and dropped it into her purse. He left the keys in the ignition and the motor running.

  He pumped a load of buckshot into the twelve-gauge chamber and approached the mobile home in a crouched run. He circled the trailer, taking a quick look into each window. Finally, his heart racing, he mounted the creaking steps to the wooden porch. All he could hear, aside from his thumping heartbeat, was the occasional gust of wind through the junipers and the creak of the metal hinges as the door swung with each breath of wind. The trailer was surely empty. He waited for the wind to open it, then slid through the swinging door. Methodically, he searched the kitchen, the living room, finally the bedroom. He pushed the bathroom door open with the shotgun barrel and peered into the darkness. Nothing stirred. The small home was clean and orderly. No evidence of a struggle, no sign that anyone except the owner had been inside. It must have been just as he suggested to Anne; the tribal police had taken Daisy to another location, safe from her tormentor. Since the Ute cops weren’t here waiting for his arrival, the suspect must have been picked up. Either Daisy would be staying with a friend tonight or the tribal police would bring her back after she signed a complaint against the intruder. He paused, relaxing, willing his throbbing pulse to slow. He left the trailer, closing the flimsy door behind him.

  He leaned on the Explorer. “Nobody home. Looks like she didn’t quite get the door closed. I’ll do a quick walk-around, then we’ll leave.”

  “All right.” Anne touched his sleeve. “Just be careful and don’t stay too long.”

  Parris set the safety on the shotgun; no sense in taking a chance of some damn fool accident. He headed through the juniper thicket to the south. Inside the thicket, he found faint tracks, prints that might belong to Daisy Perika. There was a pale blue light on the horizon, but darkness was spilling over the slopes of the San Juans. He followed the footprints along a winding deer path and then into a shallow arroyo. As he moved along the arroyo, it gradually became deeper, until he could not see over the sides. The footprints led him up the bank of the arroyo and onto the talus slope of the south face of the big mesa with three stone towers. The tracks were more difficult to follow on the rocky terrain, but he was still able to find a partial print every few steps. He climbed for a few steps and then paused. There were no more footprints.

  He studied the base of the mesa, where the tracks had seemed to be leading. There was a conical hollow in the cliff, cast in a deep shadow. His nose caught a hint of wood smoke. Parris cradled the shotgun in his arms and climbed the talus slope. The aroma grew stronger and more pleasant as he approached the conical depression in the cliff wall. He switched off the safety on the shotgun, held the flashlight off to his left in straight-arm fashion, and flicked the switch.

  A small brush hut was nestled in the shelter of the depression. Wisps of blue-gray smoke curled from gaps between the twigs. He placed the flashlight on the ground and nudged at it with his boot until the beam played upon the small opening into the shelter. He moved a yard to his left. If someone fired toward the flashlight, he intended to be well away.

  “Police,” he called with an air of authority. “Who’s in the shelter?” He had no jurisdiction here, but it would take a while for anyone to figure that out. There was a slight delay before he heard a response.

  “Chief of the matukach police? Is that you?”

  He recognized the voice of Daisy Perika. “Yeah. It’s me. You okay in there?”

  He saw the burlap cloth that covered the entrance being pulled aside. Her round face appeared, her eyes squinting into the flashlight. Parris picked up the flashlight and turned it off.

  “Come inside,” she said. “I’ve got me a fire.”

  He set the safety on the pump shotgun and crawled inside the crude shelter. Daisy was huddled over a small fire. The flames were intermittent and small, but the red embers of the dried piñon wood cast a scarlet glow on her brown face.

  “I’m glad to see you, Mrs. Perika, but what are you doing up here in this … this…”

  Daisy placed a few twigs on the embers and watched him with black eyes that reflected glints from the fire. “I will be safe here until the companion of Darkness leaves.”

  So, the old woman was on the ball. She must have spotted the intruder and headed for this hiding spot. “Then you’ve seen him? My man called the tribal police. I imagine they’ve already picked him up.”

  “I can’t see my home from this place, but I can see the road coming in and I can see all the way up into Cañon del Espiritu. Every few minutes, I go out and look. Then I come back inside and get warm. I am an old woman, and I get cold quickly. I haven’t seen nobody.”

  “You haven’t seen the tribal police? They should have been here an hour ago…”

  “No police come, except you. How did you know where to find me?”

  “Blind luck, I guess. Followed some tracks but lost them at the foot of the mesa. Then I smelled your smoke.” The Southern Ute Tribal Police had not arrived, and they should have showed up hours ago. Had Piggy screwed up again? And the suspect. Where was the killer? Had he already come and gone? Maybe he hadn’t come at all. Maybe he wouldn’t. The thought was comforting.

  “Why did you come up here? You say you didn’t see anyone…”

  She waved her hand in front of her face as if to dispel a fog. “It was the dwarf; the one we call pitukupf. He warned me that Man-Who-Walks-with-Death would come tonight. He also told me you would come, so I am not surprised.”

  Parris suppressed a smile. The “prophets” were all alike. They only predicted what had already happened. “Is this dwarf expecting any other visitors?”

  “One more. The woman with tuwisi hair.”

  “Two what?”

 
; “Tuwisi. Strawberries. Pretty red hair. The pitukupf told me this woman would come, that she would meet the evil man. When muatagochi is ten circles high—”

  “When what…”

  “The moon. When it rises ten circles high”—she made a circle with thumb and finger and held her hand over her head to demonstrate—“Man-Who-Walks-with-Death will come out of the darkness and strike this woman.” Daisy noticed the hollow expression spreading over the policeman’s face. “The woman with strawberry hair … is she with you?”

  Parris nodded; he felt his stomach churn. The old woman could not possibly have seen Anne’s red hair from this distance. Not in this light, not even if she had a binoculars stashed somewhere. He crawled out of the hut and stared at the moon, its edge barely peeking over the sharp profile of Summit Peak. How long until it was ten disks high? How long had he left Anne huddled in the squad car? He glanced back at Daisy’s anxious face protruding from the hut.

  “I’ve got to get back.”

  “I know. Hurry, now. Don’t worry about me.”

  He stumbled down the talus slope, praying he wouldn’t fall or twist an ankle. His life now had a single, focused purpose: to get back to Anne, to protect her from Man-Who-Walks-with-Death. Nothing else mattered. Nothing.

  * * *

  His hiding space was small, damp, and dark. As a child, he had feared the darkness, but everything was different now. Darkness offered protection, concealment. The man sat, huddled in a fetuslike position, fingers locked around his knees. He yearned for a cigarette, just a puff, but that would not be prudent. And he was the soul of prudence. The policeman had come close. Very close. He could hear the pretty woman moving about. His nostrils caught the scent of her perfume. His senses had sharpened as the inevitable triumph approached. This would, he promised himself, be a pleasure.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Parris ran; the cold air pierced his lungs with a thousand icy needles. As he approached the small clearing in the juniper stand, the lights from Daisy’s trailer filtered fuzzily through the snow flurry. He slowed to a brisk walk, his only comfort the cold metal of the pump shotgun, whose seven-plus pounds now pulled at his arm like twenty. Had he pumped a round into the chamber? Yes, he remembered this distinctly. Don’t panic now. Concentrate on the problem at hand.