The Witch's Tongue (33 page)

Scott Parris thumbed the fast forward button, watched the VCR’s digital counter advance. “That should be about the right spot.” The chief of police pressed Play. The whining videotape jerked to a near halt, began to rotate at a more sedate rate.

The scene displayed on the Sony color monitor was of an antiseptic-looking room on the third floor of the Federal Building in Denver. The single camera had been set up to frame the conference table in the precise center of the screen. Seated on the viewer’s right was the Apache, outfitted in a neon-orange jumpsuit. Felix Navarone was protectively flanked by his legal counsel; the thin-faced young woman wore a robin’s-egg-blue suit, rimless spectacles, a thin smile. The left side of the table was occupied by the lumpy form of a middle-aged assistant United States attorney. He had a pencil in his hand, a sour look on his face. On the table in front of him were three stacks of documents, a glass of water, a yellow legal pad. He was speaking to the accused in a bullfrog-deep voice.

“…
AND SO
you understand, Mr. Navarone—you must respond to all of the questions with the truth—”

The defense counsel interrupted: “The truth
to the best of his knowledge
.”

The federal attorney nodded. “Of course. But quite aside from responses to direct questions, it must also be clearly understood that Mr. Navarone will not make any statement that is intended to misinform or otherwise mislead this investigation into the potentially deadly assault on Mr. Ralph Briggs, the deaths of Mr. Jacob Gourd Rattle, Mr. Eduardo Ganado, and Southern Ute police officer James Wolfe.” He fixed Felix Navarone with a soul-chilling stare. “Furthermore, any relevant omission on your part will be seen as equivalent to deliberate lying, and will be considered sufficient grounds to break the terms of the plea agreement your counsel has negotiated.”

Navarone turned to his attorney with a worried expression.

“Just tell the truth,” she said.

“Let me make it crystal clear.” Sour Face delivered the words in a cold I’d-just-as-soon-hang-you monotone. “If the Department of Justice should conclude that you’re not entirely on the up and up, the plea-bargain deal is history. Forget the fifteen years max. Nothing you say here can be used as evidence, but you go to trial on two counts of first-degree murder.” The federal attorney sketched a hangman’s noose on his pad.

The prisoner stared at the grisly cartoon, nodded dumbly.

The defense attorney aimed a silver-plated ballpoint at her heavy-jowled counterpart. “I wish to go on the record—I am advising my client that he is not to address
any
issue unless he is absolutely certain about the facts. So do not attempt to trip him up with questions that will be looking for speculative responses.”

“So noted.” Sour Face tried to look pleasant. The effect was that of a fox grinning at a cornered rabbit. “Mr. Navarone—tell us what happened.”

The prisoner seemed uncertain. “Where should I start?”

“Whose idea was it to break in to the Cassidy Museum?”

Navarone glanced uncertainly at his attorney.

She adjusted the spectacles onto the bridge of her nose. “My client wishes to state that he and Mr. Eduardo Ganado are the sole persons responsible for the burglary of the Cassidy Museum.”

Sour Face glanced at Navarone. “That right?”

The Apache hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah.”

The fed consulted a document. “In an earlier statement, you suggested that another person provided helpful information about the general lack of security at the Cassidy Museum—and encouraged you to burglarize it.” He directed a cruel smile at the felon. “Do you now wish to withdraw that statement?”

“Yeah, I guess so. I sure don’t want to queer the deal we made—”

“Our position on that matter is quite clear,” the defense counsel snapped. “Because my client has no material proof of any alleged third-party involvement in the burglary, he prefers to make no statement on the issue. We do retain the option of addressing this issue in the future, should events warrant.”

Felix Navarone was quite obviously confused.

His lawyer leaned to whisper in his ear.

The Apache nodded, said to the federal attorney, “I’m not claiming that anybody but me and Eddie Ganado had anything to do with the heist.”

Sour Face had dotted the
I;
he had one more
T
to cross. “Was your brother, Mr. Ned Navarone, involved in any way in any of the crimes for which you are accused?”

“Nah.” Felix Navarone grinned. “Ol’ Ned ain’t smart enough to tie his own shoes. I’d never let my big brother know what I was up to.”

SCOTT PARRIS
stopped the tape. “Felix Navarone tried to bargain himself down to five years by implicating Ralph Briggs in the Cassidy Museum burglary. So Felix must be the guy who called Ralph a few hours after the theft—and when Ralph refused to set up an exchange with Jane Cassidy, threatened our buddy.” Parris shook his head at the stationary image of Felix Navarone. “Lying scum bum. I wish they’d put him away for life.” He restarted the VCR.

THE FEDERAL
attorney was making cryptic notations on his legal pad. “Please go on, Mr. Navarone.”

The Apache continued in the casual manner of one telling a friend about a recent fishing trip. “That night when me and Eddie drove up to the Cassidy place, it was dark as the inside of a crow’s gut. I parked in some bushes. Eddie got the crowbar from behind the seat, broke through the glass on the museum door, reached through and opened the latch.” He paused to smile. “It was no sweat—like opening a can of sardines.”

The thief described the mundane details of the burglary, the jolly late-night drive to Three Sisters Mesa. And then Felix Navarone began to hesitate.

The federal attorney was glaring at the prisoner.

Engrossed in his memories of that night, Felix Navarone seemed almost unaware of the fed. “While Eddie kept a lookout, I stashed the loot on that ledge that sticks out from the cliff like a Ubangi’s lip. Those Utes call it something else….”

“The Witch’s Tongue,” the federal attorney said in a helpful tone. “For the record, Mr. Navarone, I understand that you do not wish to reveal how you were able to gain access to this rather precipitous ledge.”

As expected, the response came from the prisoner’s attorney: “That is correct. The precise means by which my client got onto the so-called Witch’s Tongue is not relevant to these proceedings. He has admitted to his involvement in the burglary, and the fact that he concealed the stolen items on the ledge.”

Having already agreed to this omission in the testimony (on grounds that it involved certain Native American “cultural issues”) the federal attorney nodded. “So noted.”

“
STOP THE
tape.”

Scott Parris complied with the tribal investigator’s request.

Charlie Moon leaned forward, stared hard at the frozen image of the Apache.

Parris eyed his enigmatic Indian friend. “What is it?”

“After he was dropped back in the jug on the murder charge,” Moon said, “Navarone bragged to some of the other prisoners that he’d
flown
onto the Witch’s Tongue. And I’ll bet that’s what he told his lawyer.”

Parris’s mouth crinkled into a merry grin. “Then how come he got stranded there—why didn’t he just flap his wings and fly off again?”

Moon’s smile felt stiff on his face. “Felix Navarone told some of his fellow jailbirds that his magic was turned against him while he was on the Brujo’s Tongue—he lost his ability to fly. At least for the time being.”

“That’s not the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Parris said. “But it’s somewhere up there in the top ten.”

“I’m sure the Apache expects a big-medicine tale like that to make a serious rep for him behind the walls.” The Ute pointed at the prisoner’s image on the television screen. “But look at his eyes. Navarone is scared.”

The chief of police turned to take a long look at the television. “I expect he’s frightened about going to prison.”

Moon shook his head. “It’s more than that.”
He’s scared of whoever it was that left him on the Witch’s Tongue. That’s why he won’t talk about how he got onto the ledge or how somebody made sure he stayed there. He’s worried that same person will come back. And stop his clock for good
.

Parris pressed the Play button.

FELIX NAVARONE
eyed the fed’s glass of water.

The U.S. attorney took note of this. “Want something to drink?”

“Could I have a beer?”

The fed laughed out loud, the defense counsel smiled.

Even Navarone seemed amused at his request. “Then how about a Coke?”

“Sure.” Sour Face raised an eyebrow at the opposition. “Anything for you, counsel?”

“Coffee would be nice. With cream.”

The fed nodded to someone off camera. The courtesies disposed of, he asked the prisoner why he and his partner had selected that particular hiding place.

“We figured it would be the perfect spot. Almost nobody ever goes into Snake Canyon.”

The latter assertion piqued the fed’s curiosity. “Why is that, Mr. Navarone?”

The Apache stared at the pitifully ignorant white man. “It’s a very bad place.”

“I see.” Sour Face penciled
Bad Place
on his yellow pad. “What happened after you had hidden the stolen property on the ledge?”

The prisoner shrugged under the loosely fitting orange jumper. “Well, me and Eddie Ganado are about to leave the mesa when we hear—uh—someone coming. Turns out it was Jacob Gourd Rattle. Ol’ Jake, he must’ve saw the light from our Coleman lantern. Anyway, Jake yells, ‘Who’re you two yahoos—and what’re you doin’ here?’ Me’n Eddie, we’re so freaked we don’t say nothing. Then Jake, he shakes his finger at us and says, ‘You’re not Utes—you got no right to be on Ute land.’” Felix Navarone ducked in an attempt to avoid the U.S. attorney’s stare. “I couldn’t tell you exactly who threw the first punch. It might’ve been Jake, it might’ve been Eddie.”

“But it certainly wasn’t
you
.” There was a sarcastic smile on the fed’s face. “And just for the record, you are not claiming self-defense in the Gourd Rattle homicide.”

Navarone’s counsel responded, “My client is merely stating that he does not remember who initiated the unfortunate altercation.”