Shadow Man
Page 15
Perched on a dusty ledge on the sandstone cliff, the blue-black raven emitted a low, rattling chuckle.
By the time she opened the door to her warm, cozy home, food was uppermost in Daisy’s mind. And after a satisfying supper of scrambled eggs and buttered bread, the weary woman was drawn to her bed. She switched off the lights, slipped her bones under the covers, pulled the quilt up to her chin. Tomorrow will be soon enough to call Charlie. She yawned. Not that he’ll pay the least attention to…The thought was terminated with a snore.
22
A Debt of Honor
At Spencer Trottman’s invitation, Charlie Moon seated himself across the desk. The tribal investigator crossed his long legs, capped his knee with his hat. “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“You are quite welcome.” Trottman put on a thin smile. “I assume that your visit must have something to do with our mutual client, the late Dr. Manfred Blinkoe.”
“You’re right about that.”
The attorney tried to read the gambling man’s poker face. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
The Ute shook his head. “There’s something I want to give you.”
“Indeed?” Trottman could not imagine what.
Moon removed a manila envelope from his inside jacket pocket, tossed it on the glass-topped desk.
Trottman arched an eyebrow. “What’s this?”
“Two thousand dollars.”
The eyebrow went a notch higher. “Please explain.”
“It was an advance from Dr. Blinkoe—for services I wasn’t able to provide.” Moon got up, put the Stetson on his head. “I figured it should go to his estate.”
Having never had any dealings with an honest man, the attorney stared in disbelief.
Having slept on it
Following a breakfast of green-chili stew and warmed-over biscuits, Daisy Perika eyed the pendant telephone and chewed over her thoughts of the preceding day. Charlie’s polite and pretends to listen to what I have to say, but he never pays any attention to my visions or anything the pitukupf tells me. He thinks I’m just a silly old woman who talks to a little man that ain’t really there. So when I tell him where that matukach woman is hiding, I won’t tell him how I know.
Daisy slipped on her reading glasses, studied the miniature telephone. The colored buttons were so tiny. This is not for a normal-size person. I should have given it to the pitukupf, let him wear it around his skinny little turkey neck. Maybe the dwarf would give Charlie Moon a call, ask how are you, you big jug head, and what is the price of beef these days? The thought made her grin. But what had Charlie said? Oh yes, the red button is 911, the blue one is his cell phone, the yellow one is the ranch, the green one is to redial the last number you called, the pink one is…She could not remember what the pink button was for. Daisy pressed the blue button. It rang several times before she heard the recorded message.
The number you have dialed is not responding. If you wish to leave a message, please press one and wait for the tone.
Phooey! I’ll try his ranch. Daisy pressed the yellow button.
A woman’s voice answered. “Columbine.”
Daisy snapped at the invisible person. “Where’s my nephew?” As an afterthought, she added: “And who’re you and what’re you doing in Charlie’s house?”
“Ah—is this Mrs. Perika?”
“Who else would it be, calling from a dinky little telephone that’s hanging on a string around my neck? Now tell me—what’s going on up there?”
“Well, ma’am, this is Dolly Bushman. Charlie ain’t at home right now, and when he’s going to be away from the headquarters for a long spell, he generally sets his phone to ring here at the foreman’s house. Would you like to leave him a message?”
“No, I wouldn’t.” Not with you. “So where is he?”
“He’s gone to see a lawyer about something. A Mr. Trottman, over at Granite Creek.”
Oh that lawyer—he’s the one who liked my Old Apache stew. Needing a favor, Daisy softened her tone. “Do you have Mr. Trottman’s phone number?”
“I think so. Just a minute.” Dolly was back in less time than that. She read the numbers to Charlie Moon’s aunt. “Mrs. Perika, I believe that’s for the lawyer’s cell phone, but I could look up his office phone for you in the book and—” The kindly woman heard a click in her ear.
This one ain’t programmed in, so I’ll just do it the old-fashioned way. Taking considerable care not to make an error, Daisy Perika used a wooden toothpick to punch in the attorney’s telephone number.
Several rings, then:
The number you have dialed is not responding. If you wish to leave a message, please press one and wait for the tone.
The frustrated woman clenched her teeth. So, Mr. Trottman ain’t answering his stupid phone either. I’ll just ring Charlie’s cell phone again and leave a message for him. She gave the button a poke. Waited through a dozen rings. Heard the now-familiar recorded voice.
The number you have dialed is not—
She deftly pressed 1, waited for the tone. “Charlie, I just tried to call you on that lawyer’s phone, but he ain’t picking up.” She took a deep breath, puffed up like an angry horned toad. “I wanted to tell you that I know where you can find that white woman—I’m talking about Blinkoe’s yella-headed wife. She’s holed up in a place close to St. Cuthbert’s Church, which is over at Garcia’s Crossing, which is just south of Gunsight Mesa. And if you can’t find her with those directions, I guess I’ll just have to lead you by the hand and show you right where she is.” A pause. “And don’t you go asking me how I know—I have my ways.” Imagining the look on Charlie’s face when he got an earful of this, she smiled. “Call me right away.” Daisy pressed the Off button. Well, I’ve done my part.
She waited all day for Charlie Moon to return her call—even forgot to have her lunch. By twilight, she was fuming. He’s probably out somewhere chasing them stupid white-faced cows. Or white-faced women. Or worse still…Maybe he heard my telephone message and decided it was just some more silly old woman’s talk. Not even worth his taking the time to call me back.
It was long past sundown when she gave up. The famished, weary woman did what must be done.
She had her meager supper, went to her little bed.
23
The Urgent Visitation
Having slipped quickly through that frenzied region where dreams and madness are concocted, Daisy Perika now drifted effortlessly in those dark currents whose silent voids are familiar to the aged and to infants. Her soul was at rest. Until…
Someone whispered in her ear.
Wake up, old woman.
Who are you?
Come with me.
Why?
Hurry!
The sleeper felt this someone take her by the hand.
Daisy was only dimly aware of getting out of bed, sleepwalking from her bedroom onto the kitchen’s cold linoleum floor, opening the trailer door, stepping onto the rickety wooden porch, half-stumbling down the pine steps. She peered through slitted eyelids, shivered in the chilly night air. This doesn’t make any sense…I must be dreaming.
The unseen someone tugged urgently at her hand.
Go toward the trees. Hurry.
The old woman opened her eyes. I’m not asleep—I’m really outside! Well this is crazy—I could freeze to death. She turned toward her trailer home.
She heard the voice again. There was no more urging—this was a command.
Do NOT go back.
In an effort to shrug off the spell, the annoyed woman spoke aloud. “It’s cold out here—I’m going inside.”
No. The grip on her hand tightened.
She tried to break free. “You mind your own business—”
Within the thin boundaries of an instant, there was a thunderous quartet of sensations.
A flash of bright, orange light.
A blast of skin-scorching heat.
A horrendous booming.
Now the old woman was truly unconscious. After a timeless moment, she floated back to the hard surface of physical reality. Daisy could not move. As a few fragmentary concepts coalesced, a singular coherent thought began to form.
I must be dead.
She blinked, waited for her eyes to focus. She stared at the flickering of yellow light reflecting off the bunched needles of a piñon.
If I’m not completely dead, then I must be pretty close to it.
Daisy managed to raise herself on one elbow, moaned at what she saw. A twisted steel skeleton of her trailer was all that remained. Flames leaped and pranced like demented dancers in a hellish ballroom.
Tears puddled up in her eyes. My home is gone—and all my stuff.
Weary of this life of sweat and toil, the old woman fell onto her back, stared at an inky sky. She spoke aloud to God. “Well, that does it. I’m old as the mountains, I’ve outlived three husbands—the only family I’ve got left is Charlie Moon, and he don’t come out here to see me except on Sundays.” Or when something’s broke and needs fixing. “And now I don’t even have a roof over my head.”
Daisy closed her eyes to the world. In a croaking voice, she began to sing. “Swing low, sweet chariot…comin’ for to carry me home.” She tried hard to recall the other words to the spiritual. And did. “I looked over Jordan, what did I see…a band of angels comin’ for me.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Comin’ for to carry me ho-ome.”
The tears flowed freely now.
She licked parched lips, sang more loudly—so God would be sure to hear. “Swing low, sweet chariot.” She repeated this phrase a dozen times, while mulling over her thoughts.
If Father Raes Delfino gets back in time, he can say some words over me. Aside from Charlie Moon, I wonder how many people will show up at my funeral. Cousin Gorman for sure; he’ll be stuffing his face with the free food. And Oscar Sweetwater will probably give a big speech—the tribal chairman don’t ever miss a funeral or a chance to shake hands with some voters. And Louise-Marie LaForte will be there, poor old thing—I expect she’ll cry buckets for me. I hope Charlie Moon remembers to have me buried in my purple dress. The one with the beads sewed onto the collar with the silver thread. Maybe I should leave a note. She scratched at the sandy ground with her fingernail. It was tedious work, but she kept at it. REMEMBER MY PURPLE DRESS YOU BIG JUG HEAD.
There, that should do it. Daisy continued to sing the song until her throat was dry and scratchy as sandpaper. Finally, she looked at an empty sky. Squinted.
Okay, God—I’m done singing. I am ready to go.
She waited.
And waited.
Dear God, you know how I don’t like to complain, but laying out here on this hard ground hurts my back. And in case I forgot to mention it, I don’t see no angels or chariot. The sense of being ignored by her Creator weighed heavily on the vain old woman. Well, then—if you ain’t gonna send no angels, maybe I just won’t go! As she considered the possibility of living for another year or two, the notion began to seem not only bearable but downright appealing.
Daisy sniffed, smelled the pungent odor of burned hair. Oh no. I must be cooked to the bone. She imagined a face hideously scarred by flames—little children screaming at the sight of her.
Someone spoke to her. “It’s nothing to worry about. Just a few blisters.” There was a pause before he added: “And your eyebrows and some of your hair got singed off.”
It was a familiar voice. She turned to stare at the man squatting beside her, his face illuminated by the flames. “Nahum—is that you?”
He nodded.
For someone who had decided to live a little while longer, his presence was not good news. Nahum Yaciiti had been gone from Middle World for a dozen years—ever since that tornado killed him and most of his sheep. The earlier thought returned to haunt Daisy. Maybe I’m already dead and just don’t know it. “Nahum—”
“You’re not dead.”
“You sure?”
The Ute shepherd nodded again.
Daisy reached up to her face, gingerly pinched her cheek. Maybe he’s right. I don’t feel dead. Grunting painfully with the effort, she pushed herself up on both elbows. “What happened?”
Firelight flickered in his eyes. “Looks like your place burned down.”
She managed to sit up. “I can see that. What I want to know is how—”
“I’d say you’re in kind of a fix.”
Daisy understood what he meant. I’ve got half my hair burnt off. No place to live. Not a bite to eat, no water to drink. It’s miles to the nearest neighbor. Charlie Moon won’t be here till Sunday, which is three days away.
“You worried?” Nahum turned to smile at his cantankerous old friend.
“Why should I be?” The tribal elder scowled at the smoldering ruins of her home. “Everything’s just dandy.”
Angelica Pettibone had departed from the Durango airport only minutes earlier, climbing straight out from runway 20 to an altitude of eight thousand feet. The pilot banked the small aircraft into a gentle eastbound turn, continued her ascent into the crystal-clear night sky. Following her brief call to Flight Service, the filed Visual Flight Rules flight plan was active. Now she dialed the aircraft radio to 118.57 MHz, made the initial call-up to Denver Center, provided her aircraft’s call sign.
The controller’s response was immediate. “Niner-Mike-Echo, Denver Center. Say request and type aircraft.”
She thumbed the microphone switch on the control yoke. “Denver Center, Niner-Mike-Echo is a Cessna 172, en route from Durango to Colorado Springs on VFR flight plan. Request flight-following.”
“Niner-Mike-Echo, squawk one-seven-two-three and indent.”
The pilot dialed the radar transponder from 1200 to the requested code. “Niner-Mike-Echo squawking one-seven-two-three and indent.” She pressed the Indent button that would cause her radar blip to “bloom” on the controller’s display.
“Niner-Mike-Echo, radar contact twenty-five miles east of Durango.”
The pilot was about to respond when her eye caught a glint off to the northwest. She blinked, took another look. My God—it’s a fire. “Ah, Denver Center, Niner-Mike-Echo has an apparent structure fire in sight on the ground. Estimate it’s about five miles northeast of my position.” She checked her sectional chart for terrain or other obstacles. Finding none, she banked the aircraft and headed directly for the glow. “Denver Center, Niner-Mike-Echo will overfly the fire to get GPS coordinates.”
“Niner-Mike-Echo, no traffic in your area.”
Angelica pressed the Flight Plan button on the GPS unit, watched the display switch from the moving map to a text page listing the various waypoints she had selected earlier.
Unseen and unheard by the Ute elder, the sweet chariot swung low over the flames that were licking up the last morsels of Daisy Perika’s home.
The pilot dialed the selector knob until the Set Waypoint “soft-button” appeared. Taking due care to maintain her altitude in the mountainous terrain, she pressed the button just as the Cessna passed over the fire. “Denver Center, Niner-Mike-Echo has coordinates for the structure fire.”
The controller responded. “Niner-Mike-Echo, Denver Center ready to copy.”
Forty-four minutes later
Sirens screaming, emergency lights flashing, the first fire truck came rumbling along the dirt lane.
While a half-dozen helmeted firemen sprayed the smoldering residue of Daisy’s home, an emergency medical technician tended to the former occupant.
After the enthusiastic EMT had poked and prodded and chatted her way through a preliminary examination—and pronounced her patient fit—she tapped a painted fingernail on the turquoise rectangle dangling from the Ute woman’s neck. “That’s a real pretty pendant. Where’d you get it?”
What is she talking about? Daisy looked down at the thing. Well, my goodness. It was the little telephone Charlie Moon
had given her. For use in emergencies. She looked around for Nahum Yaciiti, eager to tell him about this joke on herself. But the shepherd had departed for other pastures.
24
The Summons
When the telephone jingles in the dead of night, it is always unsettling. Twelve times out of thirteen, it will be a wrong number—some beer-soaked guy calling from Poko’s Lounge who wants to talk to his ol’ buddy Leo. He refuses to believe this isn’t Leo’s number. You hang up, he calls you right back. “Hey, Leo ol’ buddy—whassup, bro?” There’s no way to strangle him without getting out of bed, driving all the way down to Poko’s. Maddening. Then there’s that thirteenth call. The one that matters.
Charlie Moon rolled over in bed, snatched up the receiver, listened to a terse report of a fire and a survivor. “I’m on my way.” He pulled on his jeans and boots, grabbed a shirt and hat, clomped down the stairs and outside into the chilly stillness. The Expedition was moving before he slammed the door. As the big automobile rumbled over the Too Late bridge, roared past the foreman’s house, Daisy Bushman woke up, blinked at the clock. “Where on earth is the boss off to at this time of night—and in such a big hurry?” Her husband responded to this query with a grunt and a snore.
A graveyard-shift state policeman stationed along the route reported to his dispatcher that the Columbine flagship was “flying low,” but did not give chase. He had heard the radio chatter about the fire out at Daisy Perika’s place. The tough cop said a prayer for the old woman. And her nephew.