The Shaman Laughs (26 page)

"Then you must be the Catholic priest from St.—"

"No," the man interrupted, "that I am most certainly not." His blue eyes twinkled.

"I give up," the Ute said, and introduced himself and his pardner.

The priest stuck his hand into Moon's and shook it vigorously. "I'm Father Rory O'Dinnigan, and I hate to disappoint you, but I'm not a Roman Catholic. I'm Episcopalian. Serve as an informal chaplain over at Fort Lewis College. Benita's been attending our Bible study services for more than a year now; Father Raes called yesterday and told me about her illness."

The Ute policeman nodded toward the tiny figure in the bed. "How is she… doing?" Moon asked the question haltingly, as if he didn't want to hear the answer.

"Yesterday, the surgeon wanted to amputate her leg," O'Dinnigan said. "Said if he didn't amputate, the infection would spread." Even under the sheet, the infected leg now appeared to be much larger than the other.

"When are they going to do it?" Moon asked.

"Not going to," O'Dinnigan said. "Benita refused to sign anything. I visited her father over at the jail and pleaded with him to sign the papers; he made disparaging remarks about my parentage and made it very clear that if I came close enough he would break both my legs." The priest turned to look at Benita. "Mr. Sweetwater is very bitter; he believes God should not have allowed this awful calamity to fall upon his daughter. Father Raes and I," he said sadly, "represent this God who has failed him."

The Ute was not concerned with Gorman's theological problems. "If they don't take her leg off," Moon asked, "what's going to happen to her?"

"She's going to die." The priest walked daily with Death whispering in his ear.

Benita cried out: "Charlie!"

He was at her bedside in a moment; Benita had pushed herself up on an elbow. Her face was shining with a glow that Moon assumed had something to do with the fever. Parris, standing in the door, could see a pale halo of light developing, swirling like a frosty mist around her head. Father O'Dinnigan was on the opposite side of the bed from Moon, but Benita didn't seem to notice his presence.

She seemed to be blind. "Charlie… I heard you talking… are you there?"

"I'm here, right beside you… sweetheart." He gently lowered her onto a pillow that was soaked with her perspiration.

"Dear Charlie," she said, "Nahum was here last night"

Scott Parris blinked in disbelief at what he saw approaching her bed; he tried to speak but there was a knot in his throat

Moon, oblivious to the vision unfolding before Benita Sweetwater and, to a lesser extent, before Scott Parris, put his big hand on her forehead. "You're burning up with fever."

She lifted a trembling hand to point toward the foot of her bed. "Can't you see them?"

Moon was troubled by her feverish chatter. "See who? Father O'Dinny… the priest is here; my pardner Scott Parris, he's over by the door."

She pointed toward a blank wall, "… ooooh," she said with a little squeal of delight "it is
plan
. Do you see…"

Moon attempted to speak but could not.

"She's here," Benita said, "
pian
is here to take me home."

"What did she say?" O'Dinnigan whispered.

"It's Ute," Moon said hoarsely. "It means 'my mother.'"

"Charlie… Charlie," she sung as if the sound of his name was sweet music. She laughed. "Kiss me good-bye, Charlie Moon."

The Ute hesitated, then kissed her tenderly on the forehead.

"The Shadow of Death," she said, "it comes near. But I am not afraid."

Charlie Moon was afraid.

The startled priest took her hand. "For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them… and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters…" O'Dinnigan's eyes were moist with tears. "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes." He wiped away his own tears. "Amen."

Benita slumped; her head rolled to one side on the moist pillow as her lips parted slightly. The priest continued his prayer; the policemen were like statues. Parris could no longer see the apparitions.

Father O'Dinnigan pressed a finger under Benita's jaw in an attempt to feel the carotid pulse. "She has left us," the plump little priest said simply. "May God grant her soul eternal peace."

Moon moved away from the bed and turned his back.

The priest clamped a hand on the Ute's elbow. "Someone will have to tell her father. I don't think he's ready to see a priest. Not just yet."

Moon leaned against the wall, his hand over his eyes. Gorman Sweetwater was the last person he wanted to see.

Parris turned toward the door. "I'll go over and tell him." Any excuse to get out of this room. He was rushing numbly down the hall, barely able to feel his feet hit the floor, when he met Emily Nightbird. She was flanked by veterinarian Harry Schaid and Herb Ecker. Herb was carrying a bouquet of yellow roses; Emily raised a dainty hand to stop Parris. "We've come to see Benita," she said, "poor little thing. How is she—"

"I'm sorry," Parris said, fighting the tightness in his throat, "she just left." He was gone before Emily could respond.

* * *

"Mr. Sweetwater… I'm Scott Parris. I was with Charlie when you were arrested…" It sounded better than /
helped Charlie slam you on the ground and cuff you
.

The old Ute sat cross-legged on the floor, his lips moving in some silent recitation. He didn't look up at the visitor in his cell.

"I'm afraid I've got some bad news," Parris said gently.

Gorman got to his feet slowly, in the cautious manner of old men whose bones are fragile. He hobbled to the window and nodded to indicate something outside. "You see that big tree?"

Parris looked over his shoulder through the rusty bars. "The cottonwood?"

"This morning, just before first light, he came."

"Who… who came?" Parris wasn't sure he wanted to hear this. This day had already been filled with phantasms that might, with the least excuse, come back to haunt him.

"Brother owl," Gorman said. That was what Saint Francis would have called the bird. Brother owl. "He came to see me this morning."

"Oh," Parris said with relief, "an owl." Only an owl.

"He sat right there," Gorman pointed at a dead branch, "and called her name." The old Ute looked up at the
ma-tukach
policeman to see if he understood. "He called out my daughter's name," Gorman said. The Ute would not say Benita's name aloud; it would trouble her ghost.

"That's why I'm here. It's your daughter."

"My daughter's spirit," Gorman said, "is gone. That's why the owl came, to tell me she would leave today, before the sun went down."

Parris fumbled with his hat and looked at an oily stain on the gray concrete floor. The cell stank of urine and disinfectant. "I'm sorry."

Gorman sat down on the wooden bench that was suspended from the green cinder-block wall by a pair of rusty chains.

"Ch—Charlie," Parris stammered, "… he's feeling real bad. Couldn't bear to see you right now… that's why I came."

"Charlie Moon," Gorman said, "is a good man." He smiled at sweet memories. "Benita, when she was a little girl, wanted to marry Charlie Moon. I told her to wait and find somebody more… more…" The old rancher removed a red bandanna from his pocket and wiped at bloodshot eyes.

"If there's anything I can do… or Charlie…" Parris began.

He put his hands over his face. "I was worried I'd have one of them cor—uh… heart attacks and die. And then my little girl'd be a orrifun. Now I'm the orrifun." He looked directly at the policeman for the first time, wondering whether this
matukach
carried a flask in his coat pocket. "You got anything to drink?"

"No."

"Then get me out of this stinking hole so I can find me a bottle."

"I'll do what I can." Parris hesitated. "There's something you should know."

Gorman Sweetwater stared into bitter nothingness. "What's that?"

"Your daughter said that someone"—Parris paused to clear his throat—"Nahum Yacüti… he came to see her last night."

"There was a bad storm last year… They never found his body. She must of seen that old man's ghost," Gorman said with a slight shiver. The notion of a visiting ghost was awful to the Ute psyche of Gorman Sweetwater. But the Christian soul of the old man was not surprised that Nahum's spirit would come to guide his daughter across that deep river. Benita had been close to that peculiar old shepherd. Maybe closer than to her own father.

Parris swallowed hard. "Just before your daughter… passed away… she saw something." The lawman felt oddly short of breath.

Gorman turned his head; he examined the policeman with a searching expression. This white man
knew
something. "You tell me about it, young man. Then you'll feel better."

"A woman came," Parris said, remembering the shining figures. Impossible phantasms of rainbow light. "Benita said it was her mother." He'd said enough. Maybe too much. It wouldn't do to mention who came with the woman.

Hoover rewound the tape and listened to Benita's faltering voice for the third time. His face was without expression except for the customary hardness in his gray eyes.

Parris leaned forward in his chair, straining to hear every whispered word from the young woman who was now spirit.

Charlie Moon sat with his eyes unfocused, his chin resting on clasped hands.

Hoover, twisting a ballpoint pen in his hand, finally broke the silence. "So, let's see what we have. Gorman Sweet-water's daughter makes a confession that she killed Arlo Nightbird…"

"It wasn't exactly a confession," Parris interrupted. "The young woman was defending herself from an attempt at forcible rape."

"She confesses, on her deathbed, to killing Arlo Night-bird," Hoover continued, "thereby giving her father, who has been arrested for the murder of the same Mr. Nightbird, a clean sheet." He tried to read Moon's unreadable face. "Very tidy."

Parris nodded. "The point is—"

"The point is," Hoover interrupted, "that since Miss Sweetwater is now among the deceased, it is not even pos-sible to question her about this"—he waved a hand at the tape recorder—"… this statement. Far be it from me to suggest that she concocted this whole story to save her father from a long jail term."

Moon sat quietly. Benita was dead. Gone. Nothing much mattered beyond that.

"But it all fits," Parris said. "The wound on Nightbird's head, the clothes he left in her father's pickup. Hell, her father would have thrown that stuff away if he'd known it was there!"

"Let's assume," Hoover said, "that the girl did fight off an attempt at rape and is wounded in the process. She comes home, tells her father what happened and who did it. Night-bird is stranded in the canyon without transportation. Father freaks out, takes off hell-for-leather to the canyon, finds Nightbird, smacks him on the head, and clips off the family jewels. Just like he'd threatened to do."

Moon finally spoke. "It could have happened like that, but it didn't. I've known her since she was knee high… she'd never lie to me. Not even to keep her daddy out of jail."

"It's damn lucky," Parris said, "we talked to her when we did. Another day and we may never have known what actually happened to Mr. Nightbird."

"Oh, I don't know," Hoover said. "I suppose we make our own luck." He stared at Moon with an expression of mild derision. "Do you make your own luck, Sergeant Moon?"

"Us Utes," Moon said evenly, "are like the Irish. We have our own leprechauns." He leaned forward, meeting the FBI agent's stare. "And our own luck."

Parris shifted uncomfortably in his chair; the atmosphere was electric with tension. The least imbalance might strike lightning between these men.

"With this confession… this very convenient statement, there's no way in hell I can make a case against her father for Nightbird's head injury. But there's still the question of the mutilation." Hoover smiled with thin lips. "The girl said nothing about snipping off Nightbird's ears and balls. Even if her story is true, ten-to-one, Gorman Sweetwater returned to the canyon and fulfilled his threat to castrate Mr. Night-bird."

Parris cocked his head. "According to the M.E., the coyotes tore off the body parts."

Hoover's pale face flushed pink; he didn't realize Parris had seen the report.

"There's no case against Mr. Sweetwater for any part of this sorry episode," Parris added firmly. "Besides, the old guy needs to get out of jail so he can attend his daughter's funeral."

"Piss on her funeral," Hoover snapped.

Parris saw Moon's frame stiffen; the Ute got up from his chair, his big hands clenched into fists. Could he keep the Ute from snapping Hoover's neck? The special agent ignored Moon; he seemed unaware of the danger. Or maybe he wanted the Ute to make his move.

"Look," Parris said as he stepped between them. "There's no justification for holding Sweetwater. Why not cut him loose so he can attend the funeral? If some new evidence turns up, you can get an indictment and throw him back into the cage."

Hoover leaned back in his padded chair, propped an immaculate boot onto his glass-topped oak desk. "Can't cut him loose, even if I wanted to. It seems that Tom Parris and Huckleberry Moon have forgotten about something."