The Shaman Laughs (23 page)

Moon waved at Angel. "Put mine on my tab." He nodded toward Parris. "Charge my pardner's to the station tab."

Angel's jaw dropped. "But Charlie… the station don't have no tab!"

"Then open one," Moon said thoughtfully, "maybe I'll use it too." Parris gave Angel a handful of dollar bills.

Moon hummed an obscure tune as they followed Hoover to the Nightbird Insurance Agency. As they arrived, Herb Ecker, with a paperback book under his arm, was mounting an aged black Harley-Davidson. Hoover was already flashing his credentials; Ecker paled at the knowledge that the FBI wanted to talk to him, but he seemed happy to see Charlie Moon's cheerful face. The Ute policeman nodded toward Hoover. "Herb, this fellow is Mr. J. E. Hoover, special agent from the FBI office in Durango. He's investigating Arlo's death. You help him any way you can, I'd appreciate it."

Herb swallowed hard; his Adam's apple bounced. "Yes, sir, I always cooperate with the authorities."

Hoover glanced at Moon with just a hint of appreciation, then turned his attention back to Ecker. "When was the last time you saw Mr. Nightbird?"

Ecker hung his head and mumbled his answer. "Wednesday, sir. About half past two. He was on his way up to that place the Utes call Spirit Canyon."

"For what purpose?"

"I think… to visit Mrs. Perika."

Hoover scribbled in his notebook. "Uh-huh. And what was his business with Mrs. Perika?"

Herb saw Moon's expression harden; he hesitated before he answered. "Something about the use of the canyon for storing nuclear wastes, I believe. He wanted to help arrange for Mrs. Perika to… to move to Ignacio."

"So," Hoover pressed, "she was moving out?"

"Yes… I would assume so. To a much nicer house."

A brief grin flashed over Moon's face; Herb relaxed. "Now," Hoover said gently, "tell me about the interaction between Mr. Gorman Sweetwater and your employer."

Herb raised his eyebrows. "Sir?"

"The insurance scam—about the bull!"

"Oh, that. Yes, Mr. Sweetwater filed a claim on his bull, Big Ouray. I—we had written a policy on the Herefords he keeps up in Spirit Canyon."

"There was, I understand," Hoover asked with overdone casualness, "a heated exchange between Mr. Nightbird and Mr. Sweetwater?" Hoover glanced sideways at Moon and was disappointed at his inability to read the Ute's face.

Herb looked imploringly at Moon, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes, they spoke… loudly."

"Mr. Sweetwater made threats?"

"Well… perhaps. In a way."

"Mr. Ecker," Hoover asked softly, "are you going to tell me precisely what these threats were, or do I get three guesses?"

"I don't remember exactly." Ecker reddened under Hoover's stare; a muscle in his neck twitched spasmodically. "I think Mr. Sweetwater became angry when Mr. Nightbird said something about his daughter."

"Daughter?"

"Benita. She was here when it happened."

"When what happened?"

"When Mr. Sweetwater threatened to…"—Herb blushed and averted his gaze to the blacktop under his feet—"to castrate Mr. Nightbird. I do not think he actually meant—"

"That's all, Ecker, at least for now." Hoover closed his notebook and turned to look blankly at Moon and Parris. "The exercise in interrogation is complete, your subsequent education begins henceforth. I'll have a warrant to search the Sweetwater ranch tomorrow morning. I want both of you with me—maybe you'll learn how a murder investigation is conducted on a real police force." Hoover turned on his heel and headed for his Jeep.

Moon leaned sideways toward Scott Parris and muttered: "Well, pardner, you ready to learn about the Dark Side of the Force?"

Parris closed his eyes and groaned.

Ecker, now at ease, smiled at Parris. "Have you made any progress in your memorization task?"

Parris scowled in pretended annoyance. "You don't think I'd welsh on a bet?"

"I suppose not," Ecker replied. "After all, 'a promise made is a debt unpaid.'"

Parris groaned. "Don't rub it in, kid." The policeman had recorded "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" on a microcas-sette tape; he listened to it late every evening but had memorized less than a dozen lines, and these imperfectly.

The memorial service was in a crumbling brick structure that served as a funeral home. There were three halls for services. Emily Nightbird had rented the largest of these, and it was an error in planning. There were barely a dozen mourners, and they were not mourning. Taxi, wrapped in his tattered trench coat, sat alone in the back row. He was muttering incoherently and scribbling notes for an imaginary article. The other mourners sat stiffly, waiting for a few words from the tribal chairman who was eager to get away after putting in a perfunctory appearance. Arlo was not a man with friends, but he was one of the People.

Charlie Moon and Scott Parris took a seat in the second row, behind the widow who sat alone. An elderly man with a grizzled beard appeared with a cup of steaming tea, which he gave to Emily Nightbird. The unkempt man shook hands with Moon, who muttered under his breath to Scott Parris: "This is Emily's father, Fidel Sombra."

Fidel pumped Parris's hand; his grip demonstrated that the wrinkled old man was not as frail as he appeared. "You that lawman from Granite Creek?"

"That's me," Parris said amiably. No one was a stranger in Ignacio for more than a couple of days.

Fidel sat down by his daughter, then turned to continue the conversation with Scott Parris. "I run a first-class swine operation up by Oxford," he said with a breath that smelled of Irish whiskey. "You in the market for any sugar-cured hams or pork sausage, I'm your man." Emily elbowed her father in a vain attempt to restore some dignity to the occasion. "I got some fine bacon," he continued, "and lard by the bucketful."

Parris grinned at the leathery faced man. "I'll keep it in mind."

Fidel put his arm around Emily's shoulders. "That tea hot enough, honeysuckle? I put in two sugar cubes, just the way you like." She nodded the pert little black hat that was fastened onto her hair with a pearl-tipped stick pin. Scott Parris felt a foolish urge to see behind the black veil that covered her face.

The next few minutes were swallowed up by a solemn monologue from the tribal chairman. Parris only heard snatches. Nightbird, according to the chairman, was a "gifted man who cared about his community," a "Ute who had learned how to operate in the white man's world," who had "brought good jobs to Ignacio," and so on.

Fidel Sombra turned to grin at Parris. "That's pure bull shit," he said, "Arlo Nightbird was a good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch and my dotter is a helluva lot better off with him dead!"

Emily
turned to
smile weakly. "You'll have to excuse my father," she said with the weary patience of one who has given up her attempts to reform a hopeless case. "Father forgets that I've just lost a husband. And he's had a bit to drink." Her voice carried across the room.

Fidel raised an imaginary glass and cackled loudly. "I'm drunk and Arlo's dead, what more could I ask for!"

The tribal chairman, his dignity offended by this rude interruption, paused to glare at the old man. "Mr. Sombra, is there something you would like to say?"

The mild sarcasm was lost on Fidel Sombra, who got to his feet and surveyed the small group. "Damn right, I have. May Arlo Nightbird's filthy soul rot in—"

"Father," Emily said as her fingernails bit into his arm, "sit down and
shut your mouth
."

Fidel recognized the menace in her voice and sat down meekly. Moreover, he shut his mouth.

Scott Parris detected an odd smell, much like the formaldehyde in Doc Simpson's laboratory. Taxi had sat down next to him. It would be best to ignore him. The gaunt man scooted closer and barely nudged the lawman with his elbow. Parris turned to see what this strange fellow wanted; mad lights danced like blue fireflies in the man's pale eyes.

He whispered hoarsely in Parris's ear. "Old Nick is back."

Parris raised an eyebrow. "Beg your pardon?"

Taxi drew his finger across his throat. "Aye. Old Nick has come to town and he's in a terrible bad mood."

"Why is Nick in a bad mood?" Parris asked wearily.

"Because to all these people"—Taxi waved his hand to indicate the small congregation of mourners—"Old Nick is invisible." He smiled with a serene assurance that only madmen can know, and retreated to his spot on the rear bench.

Moon leaned over to whisper in Parris's ear. "Now tell me the truth, pardner—aren't you glad you came?" * * *

Parris held on with white knuckles while Moon jammed the accelerator pedal to the floorboard. They roared south on Route 172 toward Rattlesnake Hill, then took a right on 318 toward Bondad. Hoover barely managed to stay within sight of the mud-splattered tribal police car. Just before the rolling grassland melded into the beginning of the canyon country, they turned north into the gravel lane leading to Sweetwa-ter's home. Hoover followed them up the lane through a pasture of alfalfa to a prefabricated aluminum-siding house. The dwelling was nestled in a grove of Russian Olive punctuated with a half-dozen stunted ponderosa pine. The house was flanked on the right with a log-and-slab garage; a rusty blue GMC pickup was parked inside.

Hoover was setting his emergency brake when the Ute policeman banged on the front door. "Gorman! You in there? It's Charlie Moon."

Hoover brushed past Parris, his face flushed pink with excitement. "Knock one more time; tell him we've got a search warrant. He doesn't open up, we kick the door down!"

Moon raised his fist to knock again when Parris interrupted. "Looks like we have some company." They turned to see a red Pontiac station wagon trailing a cloud of white dust on the gravel lane.

"That's Gorman," the Ute said.

"I'll handle this," Hoover snapped.

Moon folded his arms across his chest. "It's your show."

Gorman Sweetwater swerved sideways to a stop behind the Jeep and stumbled out of the car like a man who had hoisted a few too many. Hoover strode briskly to meet the rancher, flashing his credentials. "James Hoover, Special Agent, Federal Bureau of Investigation. I need to have a word with you."

Gorman paused briefly and glanced at the I.D., then at Hoover. "I'm bone-tired, I got no time for this bull shit!" He brushed past the special agent, who turned to follow him, shouting that he had a search warrant. Gorman stopped in front of Moon, who was blocking his way. "Charlie, what in hell is going on here?"

Moon nodded toward Hoover. "Calm down, Gorman. This FBI man wants to talk to you about Arlo Nightbird. You don't have to answer any of his questions, but he does have a search warrant."

The old man turned and glowered at Hoover, who stopped in his tracks. "Arlo Nightbird? I don't have nothin' to say about that little son-of-a-bitch!"

Moon stepped forward and raised both hands in a peaceful gesture. "Arlo's been killed; all Mr. Hoover wants to do is ask you a few questions, have a look around. Then, we'll be out of here."

"I'm damned glad the little bastard's dead," Gorman said, "but I got nothin' to say."

Hoover, determined to regain control of the situation, presented a stapled sheaf of papers. "Mr. Sweetwater, this is our search warrant. Now I suggest that—"

Gorman grabbed the papers, crumpled them in his big hands, and threw them at Hoover's feet. "There's your damned search warrant, now haul your ass off my land."

Hoover stared at the crumpled papers in disbelief. His voice was shrill: "You… you can't do that!"

Gorman's jaw was set, his hands clenched into fists. "Lis-sen close now, cop. You get off my land or I'll kick your ass off…"

"Don't threaten me, you dried up old blanket-ass." Hoover had no respect for the tired old man; that was his first mistake. Furthermore, he wasn't looking when it happened. The special agent was fumbling in his coat pocket for a pair of handcuffs when Gorman's left hook flashed out of nowhere and slammed against his jaw like a sledge hammer. Hoover fell in a heap, as if his battery had been disconnected. Moon and Parris leaped forward simultaneously; Gorman yelled and swung his right, connecting with Parris's shoulder. Moon grabbed the rancher by the neck and smashed him against the ground. Before Gorman could regain his breath, Parris had snapped cuffs on the old man's wrists. The Ute policeman, resting on one knee, had his hand on Gorman's back. "Now, you old buzz-saw, you let me know when you've had time to cool off, and maybe I'll let you up."

The rancher gasped, then muttered something unintelligible, which Moon accepted as a surrender. He grabbed the old man under one armpit and by the belt, and pulled him to his feet. "You shouldn't have hit that federal man, Gorman. He's got his work to do, just like you and me. Now, he'll be real upset."

Hoover was up on one knee, one hand on his forehead, trying hard to remember where he was.

Gorman drew a deep breath. "I'm sorry." Tears appeared in his eyes and rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. "I've had a bad time, Charlie. Just got back from that hospital up in Durango, ain't slept for two days. Got these pains in my chest."

Moon brushed the dust off his captive. "Sorry to hear it, Gorman. You been sick?"

"It's Benita," Gorman said meekly, "my little girl."

Moon felt a coldness surge in his gut. "What's wrong with Benita?"

"She's got an infection. Doctor says it's bad." Gorman shook his head in disbelief that such evil would visit one so innocent. "I just came home to get some of her things. She asked for her Bible and some night-clothes." He strained at the cuffs on his wrists. "I got to get back to the hospital."

"I'm sorry," Moon said gently. "Hadn't heard about Benita bein' sick. We've been so busy with Arlo's murder, I just haven't had time…"

Hoover was now on his feet, weaving unsteadily. He spat out a bloody bicuspid. "You crazy old son-of-a-bitch," he said in a flat, ominous tone, "you've just made a serious mistake."

"He didn't mean anything by it," Moon said. "His daughter's hospitalized and he hasn't had any sleep."

"I'm sick and tired of this crap," Hoover glanced meaningfully at Parris, "people hitting me in the face like I was some kinda damn punching bag. I want him hauled in and charged with assault on a federal officer!"