The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries)

by James D. Doss

  The lights on the squad car were out; the engine was not running. Anne was no longer inside the car. That could mean many things; he pushed the worst pictures from his mind. After making almost a complete circle, he stepped into the clearing in the darkest spot available. He moved with his back against the trailer, then stopped to look into the bedroom window. A dim light from the kitchen end of the trailer illuminated the bedroom, but he could see no one. Parris slipped as quietly as possible to the next window. It was the bathroom, black as pitch, so the door must be closed. The living room was empty. He peeked through the lower corner of a kitchen window. Anne, who appeared to be singing, was busy brewing coffee on Daisy Perika’s gas stove.

  “Anne, Anne,” he whispered, “why can’t you, at least once, do what I ask!” Parris was woefully aware that no one, not even his subordinates on the police force, did precisely as he instructed. Not the independent Clara Tavishuts, certainly not Piggy. Well, perhaps Leggett. In a world where few people could be counted on, there was always Leggett.

  He glanced at the moon. It was much higher. His mind was a jumble. The rational part wanted to ignore the old woman’s prediction. Superstition, that’s what it was! A deeper part of his consciousness, the part that invented dreams and gave sinister shapes to every shadow, dreaded to see the moon ten disks high. Parris climbed the porch steps; they groaned and creaked under his weight. He remembered his revolver in Anne’s purse. If she had heard the steps squeak, maybe the .38 was already in her small hand. A delicate finger might be pressing the trigger. That would be the final irony, shot to death with his own revolver! “It’s me,” he shouted. “Don’t get trigger-happy!”

  He heard her slide the bolt on the aluminum door, then saw the knob turn. He hurried inside, closed the door, and was rewarded with a tender kiss. His annoyance at Anne’s recklessness evaporated in the presence of her warm embrace. “Why,” he protested weakly, “didn’t you stay put in the car?”

  Anne kissed him on the neck and unbuttoned his coat. “Thought I’d be safer in here; I felt positively naked out there.” He held her closer. She pushed him away, but gently. “This,” she said, “is hardly the place. What if the Indian woman comes home? Whatever would she think?”

  “You’re right,” he replied grimly. “She catches you taking over her kitchen, it’s curtains for both of us.” He grinned oafishly. “I don’t expect she’ll be back for a while. I found her up there”—he pointed with the shotgun—“in a little shack made out of sticks.”

  Anne’s eyes expressed concern. “Is she all right? I mean…”

  “She’s fine as frog hair … made herself a little fire.” He wanted to gather Anne in his arms again but resisted the impulse. Mustn’t push. Parris sat down and checked the safety on the pump shotgun, then placed that instrument of his profession on the kitchen table. Anne poured him a steaming cup of black coffee.

  “Did the tribal police warn her? Why didn’t she go with them?”

  Parris sipped the coffee. It was bitter. “Tribal cops never showed. Ten to one, Slocum has struck out again. First order of business, I’m gonna fire that incompetent meatball.” They both knew he wouldn’t.

  Anne couldn’t put this together. “Then why is she hiding out there?”

  Parris mixed a spoonful of sugar into the coffee. “Well, you know she has these … visions or something. Says some midget told her to hole up until the bad guy was gone. When I’m around her for a few minutes, I almost start believing that stuff myself.” He held his arms wide. “Why don’t you sit down, right here?”

  She slipped onto his lap and draped her arms lightly over his shoulders. He held her around the waist and nuzzled against her neck. She was so warm! Anne kissed his forehead. “You,” she whispered, “are incorrigible. You’ll have to excuse me for a sec.” She left for the bathroom.

  * * *

  Memories of the past few weeks flashed through the madman’s consciousness in intermittent fashion: his futile attempt to reason with Priscilla; her stubborn refusal to share the results of the superconductivity research. Why hadn’t she understood? It was his natural right. If a student published a significant paper, wasn’t it traditional to include the professor on the list of authors? The teaching staff didn’t actually have to participate in the research … but didn’t they control the grants, the research facilities, select the fortunate students who would benefit from their favors? After all, it wasn’t as if the university was there for the students! But she had laughed at him. Even his threats to block her Ph.D. had no effect.

  Then there had been his lie about smelling gas, Kristin’s emergency call to University Maintenance, the theft of Julio Pacheco’s screwdriver. The long wait until Priscilla returned to the lab that night. The telephone call to Pacheco … the fabricated report about a broken water pipe in the solid-state lab. His relief when the surly repairman agreed to come fix the problem. The quick switch from his street clothes into coveralls and rubber gloves. The startled expression on Priscilla’s face … her hands trembling on the computer keyboard. Then she swallowed something … something he wanted! He vaguely recalled choking her. The blow to her face, the crunching sound as her jaw broke, the screwdriver shaft driven deep into her brain. Blood. Tearing off her clothing … ripping her abdomen with the butcher knife … blood everywhere … even in his eyes. Slipping out of the coveralls and gloves … trying to wash off all the sticky blood … Pacheco’s headlights at the curb … running naked down the hall to his office … stuffing the bloody clothing into a desk drawer … hurriedly dressing … Pacheco’s hysterical screams when he discovered the corpse. Then, of course, the call to the police. The Mexican’s flight had been an unexpected blessing.

  Initially, his recruitment of Waldo Thomson had turned out rather well. When he had fallen ill with the stomach flu just before the NAPS meeting, Waldo had agreed to leave for Washington immediately to arrange for the analysis of the superconductor sample and to file the patent application. Far more important than these services, Waldo had inked his signature into the forged patent notebook, providing testimony that his “research” on superconductivity had begun more than a year ago. All in exchange for 10 percent of the expected royalties from the superconductor invention. Not a bad deal.

  Things had begun to go wrong after Waldo had told him about Anne Foster’s appearance in Washington, her blatant meddling. He had calmed Waldo and, following instructions from the Voice, had taken care of things. At least it seemed so, until the journalist showed up at the news conference. He had been certain she was dead … how had she survived? After the journalist had the gall to arrange a meeting and reveal her suspicions about the theft of Priscilla’s research results, he had still believed there was a chance. The woman was bluffing. She had no proof. But Waldo, despite his minor adventures in the South American drug trade, his verbal exhibitions of machismo, had his limits. After the Foster woman made her threats, Waldo had panicked. Then there was the department gossip about the eccentric Englishman’s dramatic appearance at the local police station, Potter-Evans’s boasts that he had discovered a name in Priscilla’s encoded message. That did it. Signing the logbook was one thing, Waldo whined, but things were getting way too dicey now. Waldo knew everything, and Waldo was no longer dependable. There had been no alternative; he remembered the odd popping sound the stone had made when he crushed his colleague’s skull.

  No need for anything so crude again. Now he had Waldo’s little pistol. He was not familiar with guns, but he understood the physics of a rapidly expanding gas accelerating a small mass of lead to velocities of hundreds of feet per second. Point the thing, pull the trigger, ignition. That was all there was to it. Three bullets expended, three bodies. So much cleaner than ripping out intestines to find precious superconductor samples!

  He was eager to have this thing finished, but his mother had always told him that patience was a virtue. Odd, though … try as he might, he couldn’t remember his mother’s face. But it hardly mattered. The Voice was n
ow his mother and his father. The Voice whispered a promise in his ear; his patience would soon be rewarded.

  * * *

  The Ute woman’s home was incredibly quiet. Parris heard Anne turn the knob on the bathroom door; his ears picked up the slight squeak of the hinges as the door moved, then a snapping sound as the bolt closed. There was a distinct click as she flipped the light switch. The silence was interrupted by a sudden gust of wind that rattled the mobile home.

  The policeman got to his feet and stretched. He had a plan now. They would stay inside the trailer, with the shotgun at the ready and the doors locked. Daisy would be in her small hut until dawn or until he returned to bring her back. There was no hurry; the old Ute woman was tough as a boot and her stick house was surprisingly good shelter. He would be here, where it was warm, with Anne. Warm indeed. With Anne. Parris could feel the excitement build, his pulse thumping in his temple. He tapped lightly on the bathroom door. “Don’t take all night. It’s getting lonesome out here.”

  She didn’t answer. He returned to the kitchen and added coffee to warm his half-full cup. He heard the bathroom door open, the soft padding sound of footsteps. So, she had taken her shoes off. He wondered what else she might have taken off. Funny, though, something about the footsteps didn’t sound quite … The blow caught him on the back of his neck. Stunned, he tried to stand up, reaching instinctively for the shotgun. A second blow caught him squarely in the temple; this was followed by an impulse of nausea and a gray half consciousness. He wasn’t aware of falling, but he felt the cold linoleum under his face. He tried to move, but his limbs were enormous and heavy. He heard someone laugh, as if this was the punch line of a terribly funny joke. Then he slipped away into darkness.

  * * *

  Daisy Perika sat huddled before the small fire. She dropped another small piñon branch on the embers and watched the yellow flames lick hungrily at their new food. Outside the hut, pitukupf paced. Back and forth across the mouth of the cave shelter, he paced. She could not see him, but Daisy could hear the rhythmic sound of his badger-skin moccasins on the sandy floor of the cavern.

  Abruptly, the dwarf stopped his restless pacing and waddled into the shelter. He squatted on the opposite side of the fire, where the chief of the matukach police had sat only minutes before. A visitor would have seen no one in the shelter with the Ute woman, but the old shaman perceived much that was invisible. The pitukupf appreciated the warmth of the small fire and did not mind the piñon-wood smoke that drifted into his hairy nostrils.

  “Are you hungry?” Daisy opened a dilapidated cigar box and produced a six-inch section of beef jerky sealed in transparent plastic. He took little notice until she tore the wrapper and he picked up the scent of the dried meat. Daisy warmed the delicacy over the embers and then offered it to her guest. The pitukupf snatched the morsel, popped it into his mouth, and proceeded to chew. After he swallowed the jerky, he held up two fingers and pursed his lips. The shaman understood; she reached into the cigar box and found a half pack of Lucky Strikes. She placed one of the cigarettes between her lips and lit it with a piñon splinter from the fire. She drew a deep breath, so that the tip of the tobacco turned cherry red, then offered the cigarette to her guest. Pitukupf accepted the offering and settled before the fire to puff with contentment.

  “They say those things aren’t good for you, old man. Might take a thousand years off your life.” Her frame shook with laughter. The dwarf, who laughed only rarely, and then only at his own jokes, ignored the insufferable woman.

  She watched him smoke, and considered her words carefully. “Those people came here to protect me from Man-Who-Walks-with-Death; now he plans to take his revenge on them. I think you should do something.”

  Pitukupf watched her face as he blinked his smoky eyes. He made no sound, but she knew the answer as if it had been written in the sky with fire. It was not her place to instruct the dwarf. Traditions were important, but this was a special circumstance.

  “I hope,” she remarked offhandedly, “that Man-Who-Walks-with-Death does not harm anyone in my trailer. If someone dies in my home, it will be cursed. I will not be able to sleep there again.”

  Pitukupf flicked the butt into the fire; he obviously had no interest in this problem.

  Daisy played her hole card. “If I cannot sleep in my home, I will have to move away. I could live with my second cousin up at Altonah on the Uintah reservation. She has three grandchildren who live in her house, all of them spoiled, so I would not be pleased to go there. And I would miss you, pitukupf. I would worry about you.” She glanced slyly at the elfin figure. “No other Ute knows you. Who will bring gifts to your home under the earth? Will someone else dream dreams? Will another woman bring you cigarettes?” They both knew the answer.

  The pitukupf curled his upper lip. His teeth were streaked with yellow, his eyes dark as midnight. Daisy unconsciously shrunk back under his flinty gaze. Had she gone too far?

  * * *

  Parris could feel the nothingness fading away. There was a persistent buzzing in his ears, the harsh taste of vomit in his mouth. Dim orange light penetrated his eyelids. A dull pain throbbed inside his head, rising and then falling like waves on a windswept beach.

  He tried to remember where he was. Yes. The Ute woman’s home. What had happened? He remembered the blows, the nausea. His feet were cold, but his hands were tingling as the sensation returned. He could feel the cold linoleum on his cheek. Should he open his eyes? No, not just yet. He listened but could hear nothing except the hum of Daisy’s refrigerator. His right arm was twisted under him; his right hand rested near his buttocks. He tried to move his fingers ever so slightly. Good. They moved. He wiggled his toes inside the cold boots. Wonderful. He was not paralyzed. Where was the man who had clubbed him? Did he believe his victim was dead? Had he left? Please, God … let Anne be alive. And unhurt.

  Parris cracked his eyelids. The images he saw were fuzzy; he waited for the scene to come into focus. There were a pair of feet in expensive, mud-splattered dress shoes. He had no doubt who the feet belonged to and was not surprised to hear the professor’s voice.

  “Feeling better, are we? I’m so relieved; wouldn’t want you to expire just yet.”

  Parris gathered what strength he could and tried to push himself up on his right elbow. It was then that he felt the handcuff on his left wrist. He looked up, his vision gradually focusing on the man’s face. Professor Arnold Dexter, his eyes bloodshot and moist from lack of sleep, was smiling benignly at his victim. “Had to cuff you to a good solid anchor.” He flipped the handcuff key onto the table and sat down heavily on one of the chairs. “Gracious, I’m tired. Had a big day, you know, accomplished a lot. But it’s true—there’s no rest for the wicked!” The physicist rubbed his fingers over a two-day stubble of beard and giggled. Dexter had a small revolver in his hand. Parris focused on the muzzle, the copper-plated lead slugs in the cylinder. Twenty-two-caliber? Not heavy artillery, but sufficient to get the job done.

  Parris managed a sitting position and examined his predicament. His left hand was cuffed to a leg of Daisy’s gas stove. His right hand was free and Dexter’s leg was barely within reach. He blinked and examined the man more carefully. Why hadn’t Dexter already used the pistol? It was as if the physicist could read his thoughts.

  “Prefer not to shoot you just yet. That old Indian witch is out there somewhere, hiding, plotting against me. If she hears a gunshot, she’ll stay out there all night. I’ll have to kill both of you before I leave, of course.”

  “Both of you?” Did he mean Anne, or did he refer to Daisy? Parris licked his lips. His mouth was dusty dry. He tried to speak and croaked like a frog. “Anne … is she…?”

  Dexter waved the revolver in Parris’s face. “The meddling bitch was lucky last time, but her good fortune ran out tonight.”

  Parris wanted to swing a hard right into the man’s groin, but his limbs were still heavy. Wait for the circulation to return with a life-giving supply of fresh ox
ygen to the muscles. Not enough strength. Not yet.

  Dexter dropped the revolver into his trousers pocket; he lifted the pump shotgun off the table and fondled it curiously. Parris closed his eyes and concentrated all of his effort on formulating a sensible plan. If he moved too early, did something that had no chance of success, it would all be finished. If Dexter felt obliged to shoot him, Anne’s life, if she was still alive, would be snuffed out moments later. The sound of two gunshots wouldn’t alert Daisy more than one.

  Dexter turned and left the kitchen. Parris watched the man enter the bathroom, then pull Anne out by her heels. Her red hair trailed out behind as he dragged her along the floor toward the bedroom. Anne’s purse was on the kitchen table. If Dexter hadn’t searched it, the Smith & Wesson revolver would still be tucked away inside. The physicist disappeared into the bathroom. There was a splashing noise as he urinated into the toilet. Parris scooted backward on his buttocks and managed to get both hands under the edge of the gas stove. The metal was sharp and rusty. He pulled upward, gently at first and then applied more force. The rusty metal cut into his fingers. There was a popping sound as the leg parted from the linoleum. He strained; just a little more and he could pull the cuff from under the leg. Parris heard the toilet flush; he released the stove when Dexter appeared in the hallway.

  The physicist, zipping his trousers, returned with the pump shotgun. He straddled a dinette chair, then leveled the shotgun muzzle at Parris’s face. His finger caressed the trigger. “A moderate pressure,” he murmured, “and off with your head!” Dexter smiled lopsidedly, with half his mouth drooping as if from an injection of novocaine.