The Witch's Tongue (35 page)

“Take my money, Charlie. But please—don’t say another word about how the Navajo lost his hair.”

The Ute picked up the stack of greenbacks, resisted the impulse to count them.

Parris snatched back the VCR controller.

THE ELECTRONIC
facsimile of Felix Navarone helped itself to a digitized representation of a cookie and began to talk. “What happened was this. I got the van key back from Eddie, cranked up the old Dodge. Eddie gets in my pickup—he follows me on that little road off of Three Sisters Mesa. But we haven’t gone a quarter mile when that stinkin’ Dodge coughs and dies on me. There’s big boulders on both sides of the road so Eddie can’t get around the van with my pickup. Well, there we are—stranded with Jake’s van blocking the lane. We can’t just walk away and leave the dead man’s van and my truck behind it. We’re in ten kinds of trouble if we can’t get Jake’s old box of bolts started again. Eddie, he gets out of my pickup and goes around to the front of the van. I pull the latch and he pops the hood. At first, Eddie says, ‘I can’t see nothing wrong here.’ Then he says, ‘Hey, Felix—I think I found the trouble. Try it now.’ So I cranks the engine and I hear this bang-bang-bang. I thought for sure we’d throwed a rod—but it’s Eddie’s head bopping on the radiator. He yells bloody murder, I shut off the engine. But by that time, he was bunged up pretty bad. Turns out a big hank of his hair has got caught in the fan belt.”

Neither of the lawyers was able to suppress a smile.

Navarone shuddered at the memory. “It was awful. Eddie has cuts and burns all over his face and a bunch of his hair is wrapped around the fan shaft and the pulleys on the generator and I don’t know what else. His blood is splattered all over the engine. He’s not yelling now and I think maybe he’s dead, but after I cut his hair loose with my Buck knife, he’s not only alive—he’s really mad at me for taking so long to shut off the engine.” Navarone shook his head and snickered. “He starts cussing and chunking rocks at me. I laugh so hard I fall down in the snow. After a while, Eddie runs out of swear words and he can’t find any more rocks to throw, so he sits down on the ground and starts to cry. Blubbers like a baby. I says, ‘Eddie, get a hold of yourself—we got to figure out what to do. Way things are now, we can’t leave this van anyplace where it’ll be spotted. If the police find it with all your blood and hair on it—they’ll know you killed Jake Gourd Rattle.’ He says, ‘You are in this too.’ I say, ‘Eddie—you’re the one who bopped Jake and knocked him off the cliff.’ He says, ‘Felix, it don’t matter who bopped Jake—we’re in this together.’ And I tell him that the police will be able to do tests on the blood and hair and trace it straight to him. He says, ‘They’d better not, Felix—or your goose gets cooked right along with mine.’” Navarone took a sip of Cherry Coke. “Because his head is all bunged up, Eddie don’t know what to do. So I say, ‘Eddie, we’ll take Jake’s van to your place and hide it there while we clean it up real good, so there’s none of your hair or blood left on it.’ Eddie sees the sense in this, and says, ‘Right—we will
detail
this old rust bucket!’ So we take Jake’s van to Eddie’s place, stash it in his garage. We was awfully tired by then, so we decide to clean it up the next night and then get rid of it. Eddie was still in a ugly mood, so I thought I’d drive back to the place I share with my brother Ned over by Pagosa. But later on that day, when I was coming back to Eddie’s place to help him get his hair and blood offa Jake’s van—I got stopped at the roadblock.”

PARRIS PRESSED
the Pause button, turned to eye the tribal investigator.

The Ute had counted the take.
Eighty-six dollars. Not bad for a few minutes’ work
. He folded the wad, put it in his pocket.

“Go ahead,” Parris said. “Get it said.”

“You sure you won’t mind?”

Moon’s victim nodded.

“Okay. Here goes. ‘You are an easy mark.’”

“Charlie—mark my word. Your time is coming.”

“That’s what you’ve been telling me for about a dozen years now.”

“Let’s change the subject.” Parris’s wallet felt as thin as tissue. “I heard a rumor that you tipped off the FBI. Told ’em about the ignition key they found in Wolfe’s raincoat pocket.”

The tribal investigator frowned. “Who told you such a thing?”

“Stan Newman. He thinks you were trying to help his partner along, probably because she’s prettier than he is.”

“A ninety-year-old warthog that slobbers is prettier than Stan is.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” Parris said. “Stan admitted he was guessing.”

Moon was relieved to know that McTeague had not revealed her source.

“Don’t hold out on your best friend. Did Newman guess right?”

The Ute nodded.

“So how’d you know about the key in Jim Wolfe’s raincoat pocket?”

“At the roadblock, when Felix Navarone jumped out of that tree onto Wolfe, a passerby was making a videotape, which fell into the tribal chairman’s hands. I watched a part of it over and over, one frame at a time.”

“And?”

“And while Wolfe and Navarone were rolling around on the ground, I saw Navarone slip his hand into Wolfe’s raincoat pocket. Way I see it, the Apache should have been way too busy to be
picking
the cop’s pocket. So it got me to wondering—what’d Felix have on him that he wanted to get rid of so bad that he’d run from the state police, climb up a tree, then jump off the limb to assault an SUPD officer? I recalled that it was when the state cop asked him for the
ignition key
that Felix got spooked. He would’ve had no reason to get panicky about giving the Smokey the key out of his truck. So I figured he had somebody else’s ignition key in his pocket. And Jacob’s van was missing from Three Sisters Mesa.” He grinned. “Pretty good, huh?”

“Nobody likes a show-off.” Parris restarted the video of the Ganado confession, fast-forwarded to the point of interest.

“
AT FIRST
, I wasn’t too scared by the roadblock,” Felix Navarone said, “because there’s nothing in my pickup to connect me to the museum heist or to Jake’s killing. But when that tough-looking state cop asks me for the ignition key, I remember that I still have Jake’s van key in my pocket. I figure if these cops frisk me and find that key, I am dead meat and cold bones. So I make a run for it, hoping to toss the key before they can catch me. But I see them hot-footed cops is gaining on me and I know I can’t make it into the brush where I can throw the key away without it being noticed. So I
have
to climb that tree. And while I’m out on that cottonwood limb, I have me a little time to think. What I think is, If I can jump onto one of these cops, maybe I can plant the key on him. Once I do that, there’ll be no way they can prove I ever had Jake’s van key unless I’ve left some fingerprints on it, but that’s the only chance I have. So I jump on that white cop who is working for the Ute police. And while we’re rassling, I slip the key into his coat pocket. That white man was one dirty fighter—I thought he was gonna chew my face off before those other cops finally pulled him offa me.” Felix Navarone rubbed at his bitten nose, which still had not healed.

THE CHIEF
of police thumbed the Pause button, shook his head as he spoke to the wall. “I am always saying it, and I’ll say it again—with some training, Charlie Moon would’ve made a fair-to-middling police detective. But he is probably better off raising beef.”

The Ute raised his coffee cup to salute this observation. “Thank you and amen.”

Scott Parris checked his wristwatch. “During our brief intermission, you will have precisely ten seconds to gloat.”

Charlie Moon had barely heard his friend’s voice. The woman had slipped back into his consciousness. He wondered where she was right now. What she was doing. And
…Does she ever think of me?

AT THAT
very moment, the object of the lonely Ute’s thoughts was in Harford County, Maryland. She was standing on the grassy bank of the Little Gunpowder. A warm flower-scented breeze skipped over patches of pink lady’s slipper and wild columbine, brushed through leafy branches of hickory and oak, caressed the woman’s dark hair, tossed the blue cotton skirt about her knees. Miss James was remembering the man who had named a lovely alpine lake after her.
I was a fool, and weak. I should never have left him
. The lovely lady stooped to pick up a stone. The plum-sized lump was deep red, veined with blue—and heavy as her heart. She tossed it into the water. Through eyes moist with tears, she watched concentric waves blossom away from the splash.
But I am not so foolish now. And every day, I grow stronger
. She smiled at the woman on the surface of the stream, made her reflection a solemn promise.
As soon as I am able, I will go back to Charlie
.

The rippling doppelgänger did not return the smile.
But will he want you?

Unnverved by the Ute’s peculiar silence, Parris restarted the videotape.

THE FED
turned a page on his legal pad. “Mr. Navarone, I have a few questions to ask you.”

The Apache shot a sideways glance at his lawyer, got the go-ahead nod.

“First, did Mr. Eduardo Ganado take the firearm stolen from Mr. Gourd Rattle’s vehicle to the home and business of Mr. Ralph Briggs with the intent of causing bodily harm to Mr. Briggs?”

Defense counsel’s response was predictable and immediate: “Object. My client has no way of knowing what Mr. Ganado’s intent may have been.”

The Justice Department attorney had given it his best shot. “Mr. Navarone, please tell us what you know about the shooting of Mr. Briggs.”

“Well, like you already know—I was in the Ute jail in Ignacio when it happened. But a couple of days before the shooting, Eddie stops by to visit me and I tell him—”

The federal attorney interrupted. “For the record—this was Mr. Ganado’s
first
visit to you after you were arrested at the roadblock?”

“Sure. Eddie don’t dare show up at the jail till he gets that job working for my lawyer—but he wants to get me out of the jug soon as he can.”

“What was the big hurry?”

“It was like this—while I’m in the Ute jail, Eddie tries to get his hair off of the engine belts and pulleys in Jake’s Dodge van. But it ain’t no use, some of it is stuck tight. And cleaning off Eddie’s blood is lots harder than we’d thought. So Eddie figures he’ll have to burn the van, but he’ll have to take it a long way from his place so as not to raise any suspicions. But if he does that, he won’t have any way to get back home except maybe thumb a ride. Poor ol’ Eddie is still crippled up from his fall in Snake Canyon; what he needs is somebody to drive another car to where he’ll burn the van, so he’ll have a ride back home. But the only person he can trust to do that is me, and I’m in the Ute lockup in Ignacio. Also, Eddie thinks I’ve still got the key to the van.”

Sour Face allowed himself a small smile. “And Mr. Ganado thought it unwise to pay his partner in crime a visit in jail?”

“Sure—Eddie don’t want the cops to make a connection between him and me. But one night when he’s looking at the newspaper, Eddie sees this Durango lawyer’s employment ad, and he comes up with a plan.” The Apache smirked. “Eddie knows from talking to my brother Ned that this same lawyer is representing me—and she’s also looking to hire a legal aide. The ad says she needs someone who’s qualified to work with the local Native American population. Next day, Eddie shows up, pitches her a big line about what a hard worker he is, how many Indians he knows—and just like that he gets the job. This gives him a perfect excuse to visit me in the Ute jail, which he does right away. When Eddie tells me how he’s stuck with Gourd Rattle’s van, I says, ‘I’d like to help you, pal—but there’s no telling when I’ll get outta jail.’ And I also tell Eddie about how I called Briggs about an hour before I got stopped at that roadblock and how Briggs has flat-out refused to act as middleman between me and the Cassidys, and even threatened to put the cops on me.” He glanced at his attorney, got a warning look. “We are worried about that feisty junk dealer, so I tell Eddie to go talk to that tall, skinny Ute cop—Charlie Moon—see if he’ll testify that Wolfe has roughed me up. Well, from what Eddie knows of Charlie Moon, he don’t think it’ll work. But he don’t have no better idea, so he drives up to the Columbine Ranch and catches Moon just as he’s leaving. And Eddie was right: Moon won’t buy what he’s selling. But while Eddie is talking to him, that Ute cop gets a telephone call—from Ralph Briggs!” Felix Navarone’s eyes burned with hatred. “Briggs is setting up a meet with Moon so they can talk about the Cassidy heist. Eddie figures that two-faced junk dealer is gonna rat me out to the Ute, and Eddie knows that if I go to the joint, he’ll go with me. Eddie showed up that night to shoot the both of ’em—Briggs and the Ute. Eddie had it all worked out—he brought along the pistol we found in Gourd Rattle’s van. He was able to nail Briggs with the first shot, but some crazy woman starts screeching and that big Ute comes crashing through the window like getting shot is the last thing on his mind. Eddie drops Jake’s .22 pistol like he’d planned to do—and manages to slip away in the dark and get back to his car.”

THE CHIEF
of police shut off the tape, turned to the tribal investigator.
I wonder if he’s come back from wherever he was
. “You want to watch any more of it?”

“Maybe later,” Moon said. “What does Felix Navarone have to say about the run-in with Jim Wolfe?”

Parris worked his way through a written transcript of the confession. “Here it is.” He ran his finger down the page, refreshed his memory. “On the afternoon Navarone is sprung from the Ute jail, he heads out to Eddie Ganado’s place to help his buddy get rid of the Gourd Rattle vehicle. The plan is they’ll hot-wire the van, Ganado will drive it to some remote spot. Navarone will be following his partner. Soon as they torch the van, they’ll hightail it back to Ganado’s place. But they realize that taking the stolen vehicle out on a public road is fairly risky—even in the middle of the night. So they decide to scout out an out-of-the-way location for the big event. Kind of a dry run. Felix Navarone cranks up his old Chevy pickup, and with Eddie Ganado on the seat beside him they head off into the night. And what do you know—they haven’t gone but a few miles when Eddie looks in his rearview mirror, thinks he sees a car pull out of some brush and hang a tail on him. He’s not sure, because there are no headlights. Ganado turns around, watches until they hit a patch of moonlight—tells Navarone it looks like a Subaru. Navarone says that could be Wolfe’s car, and decides to take this opportunity to deal with Wolfe once and for good. So he putt-putts along while Wolfe follows, then makes a turn toward Butterfield Mesa. Navarone parks his pickup in plain sight, and him and Ganado get out and split up—waiting for the SUPD cop to play out his hand. It’s Eddie Ganado that eventually spots Wolfe—which turns out to be serious bad luck for the Navajo. Officer Wolfe empties his pistol into Ganado, and hides his body under a pile of rocks. But it’s pretty dark and Wolfe has shot most of Ganado’s face off—he’s apparently convinced he’s killed Felix Navarone. At least that’s what the Apache says. He claims he heard Wolfe call the dead man ‘Navarone.’”

Moon interrupted the monologue. “Could I make a guess?”

Parris looked up from the transcript. “As long as it don’t cost me anything.”

“Here’s how I see it—after Wolfe is gone, Felix Navarone removes the stones, stuffs Eddie Ganado’s body in the back of his old pickup, drives back to Ganado’s place, transfers the Navajo’s remains to the Gourd Rattle van, which is locked up in Ganado’s garage. After this, maybe Navarone heads for Pagosa and the nice little place he shares with his kindly brother Ned.”

Parris nodded. “That’s close enough.” He found his place in the written account of the confession. “Later on, Navarone claims he drove over to Ignacio, parked down the street from Jim Wolfe’s apartment building. Late at night, he took a look through Wolfe’s apartment window. Risky thing to do—it’s a wonder Wolfe didn’t shoot him.”

Moon shook his head. “There’s no point shooting a man you’ve already filled full of holes and buried under a big pile of rocks. You expect him to be sufficiently dead already.”

“Good point,” Parris said. “Poor fella must’ve thought he’d seen the Apache’s ghost.”

“That’s why Wolfe went to my aunt’s home—to get some corpse powder to sprinkle on the body. But when Wolfe shows up where he’d left the body under the rocks, there’s nothing there.”

Parris shook his head at the image. “Boy—can’t blame the poor bugger for being spooked!”

“Did Felix Navarone admit to murdering Wolfe—and putting his body in Ganado’s grave?”

“Call it voluntary manslaughter,” Parris said. “Navarone claimed he went back again—to ‘have a talk’ with Wolfe.” The GCPD chief of police snorted at this self-serving fabrication. “According to the Apache’s version of the story, he thought it would be too risky to walk right up and knock on Wolfe’s apartment door, so he needed to work out a way to get Wolfe to come outside without knowing who was there. And Navarone came up with something fairly clever. You’d never guess what he did.”

Moon shook his head. “I know what you’re up to.”

Parris’s face was a gilt-framed picture of innocence. “What?”

“You’re trying to get your money back. You hope you can suck me into another bet.”

“I wouldn’t even think of such a thing.” Parris’s blue eyes twinkled. “But if you want to take a guess without risking any cash—go ahead. Give it a shot.”

“You sure you want me to?”

“Sure. But if you guess right, it’ll give me a bad case of heartburn.”

“Pardner, I would not want you to suffer severe gastric distress on account of me.”

Parris looked out the window. “Go ahead. Get it out of your system.”

“Okay, here’s my guess. Felix Navarone banged on Jim Wolfe’s Subaru, which set off the theft alarm, which makes the horn go toot-toot-toot. The apartment manager heard the horn, and she heard Wolfe’s door bang when he came out with his pistol in his hand. Wolfe didn’t see anybody around his car, probably figured it was some dumb kid who’d caused the nighttime commotion. About the time he got into his Subaru to reset the alarm, Navarone must’ve slipped up with a rock in his hand, conked him on the head hard enough to crush his skull. Navarone stashes the dead cop in the back of his fifty-seven Chevy pickup, hauls the body out to Butterfield Mesa—right to the spot where Wolfe had buried Ganado—sticks Wolfe’s pistol barrel into his mouth and covers him up with rocks.”

Scott Parris found a bottle in his desk, downed a couple of Tums.

“Sorry,” the Ute said.

“You were only partly right.” Parris tried to smirk, looked like someone who had just swallowed a tablespoon of castor oil. “Navarone did not conk Wolfe with a rock—he hit him with a
brick
.”

“Well, that sure blows my notion all the way to Kingdom Come.” Moon watched his friend crunch on a third antacid tablet. “This really bothers me.”

Parris shot the Ute a barbed look. “Navarone using a brick?”

“Besides that.”

“What?”

“For his so-called confession,” Moon said, “Felix Navarone—who has committed a cold-blooded, premeditated murder—gets off with fifteen years. And if he builds up enough good time, he could walk in ten.”

“It is the American Way of Justice, my friend.” Parris put the Tums bottle into a desk drawer. “Something else nags at me. I can understand why Felix Navarone buried Mr. Gourd Rattle in a grave the dead man had dug himself—the hole in the ground was right at hand, so it was a convenient thing to do. What I can’t figure out is why Navarone would go to all the trouble and risk to transport Jim Wolfe’s body to Butterfield Mesa, just to stash him in the same spot where Wolfe had piled some rocks over Eddie Ganado.”

Moon nodded. “Did Felix offer any explanation?”

Parris belched, felt marginally better. “Navarone’s attorney claims her Native American client was performing an old Apache cultural practice. According to her, Felix Navarone was ‘closing the circle’ on his enemy.”
Whatever that means
.

Moon was beginning to think about hearth and home. “That sounds like something Navarone cooked up for his lawyer.”

Parris cocked an eye at the Ute. “So you don’t buy it?”

“Not for two cents on the dollar. My guess is that Felix Navarone put Jim Wolfe’s body in Ganado’s grave because it struck him as a hilarious thing to do.” Moon allowed himself a thin smile. “Some of those Apaches have a peculiar sense of humor.”

Parris consulted his watch. “Okay if we take a break now?”

“Fine with me.” The lanky Ute got up to stretch.

Taking care not to be noticed, Parris pressed the buzzer button on his intercom. In response, a yellow light on the panel blinked twice. The chief of GCPD scooped up a handful of papers. “Uh—I got some things to do down the hall, Charlie. I’ll be back before you know it.” He hurried away, closing the door behind him.

The Ute had not missed his friend’s monkeying around with the desk intercom station—or Scott Parris’s reluctance to say who had brought the videotape all the way from Denver this morning. Charlie Moon stood with his arms folded across his chest, listening with great interest to the silence. Presently, he heard faint creaks as someone walked up the stairs outside the chief’s office. The door opened silently on oiled hinges.