The Shaman Laughs (28 page)

Abe Workman forgot his shyness, and joined with the chorus: "He restoreth my soul!"

The Spanish-speaking members of the congregation responded: "
Convirtid a mi alma
."

Parris was barely aware of his body, but he knew that his soul was restored. The next proclamation boomed out: "He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness."

Daisy was trembling; she tugged at Moon's sleeve. "Now," the shaman said urgently, "now… very close…" The Ute policeman did not hear her.

Harry Schaid offered Gorman Sweetwater another copy of the liturgy.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…"

"
De esta suerte, aunqe caminase yo por medio de la som-bra de la muerte
.…"

Father O'Dinnigan's deep voice boomed over the crowd like a great trumpet: "I will fear no evil; for Thou art with me."

Raes led the Chicanos with equal force: "
no terneri nin-gün desastre; porque tu estds commigo
."

"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life," O'Dinnigan shouted, "and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." The Episcopal priest's last word echoed back from somewhere…
Forever
.

Charlie Moon made a solemn request to God. Wherever Benita Sweetwater was, he prayed that Goodness and Mercy were there with her. Forever.

* * *

The crowd of mourners had departed in melancholy little clusters of two and three, wiping self-consciously at moist eyes, muttering about the uncertainty of life in this hard world.

Finally, except for the trio of burly men who stood afar with muddy shovels, only the small man dressed in black remained in the cemetery. Father Raes stood by the open grave, his unblinking eyes fixed on the casket. The priest could still hear something very peculiar… a whisper… a familiar cadence… repeated over and over. No, he told himself, it is nothing more than the choppy breeze in the branches of the ash tree over the grave. Or the sound of the waters of the Pifios slipping over the rocks. The wind, playing sweet games with my imagination, the shimmering waters of the river, calling to me.

As he entertained this rational explanation, the whispered song trailed off and was silenced. Even though the wind did not cease to rattle the thin branches of the ash, nor did the crystalline waters cease in their long journey toward the great ocean in the West. Father Raes closed the covers of the Book, crossed himself quickly, and turned to walk away from the casket.

The trio of men in overalls now approached the grave with ready shovels.

Father Raes opened the door of his old sedan and turned to look back toward the cemetery. Surely it was only the light breeze in the leaves or the rollicking sounds of the Pifios washing over the rocks… enlarged by his imagination. And called upon by the priest's soul, that in his youth had felt the very breath of God. Now, as he passed his middle years, the little priest yearned for even the slightest whisper from the Source of that infinite mystery. But whether it was real or only the peculiar harmony of the winds and waters, the priest missed the sound of the old man's voice.

A voice that chanted the words of King David's sweet song in the guttural chords of the Ute tongue.

Charlie Moon was consoling Gorman Sweetwater, who appeared to be on the verge of collapse. The Ute muttered in Parris's ear: "Gorman's got no business driving himself home; he'll likely wrap that old pickup around a telephone pole. I'll haul him over to his place… Would you take Aunt Daisy home for me?"

"My pleasure," Parris said.

Daisy took Parris's arm as they watched Moon lead an unsteady Gorman to the Blazer. This caused a ripple of nervous whispers among the Utes, who wondered whether the cantankerous old rancher might be under arrest again.

"Gorman," Daisy said matter-of-factly, "should give up strong drink." When Parris didn't respond, she elbowed his ribs. "You remember what I told you?"

"About what?"

"What the
pitukupf
showed me."

He opened the Volvo door for her. "The shadow that turns into a bird?"

"Yes." She settled into the seat and buckled the shoulder strap. "And kills somebody, then changes itself into a shadow again. That shadow," Daisy said, "cast its darkness over this cemetery today."

Parris looked down at the little woman in the blue print dress. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Daisy caressed a rosary, then dropped it into her purse. She searched the face of the policeman for some sign that he sensed the evil presence that was very near to them. The
matukach
could not yet comprehend what had happened today. "No," she said. He wasn't ready to hear it yet. The Book said it and it was true: there was a time to live, a time to die. For everything there was a season.

On the way to her home at the mouth of
Canon del Es-piritu
, Daisy did not speak. After Parris escorted the old woman to her porch, she turned and frowned thoughtfully. "Everybody thinks, after you bury the body, it's all over." Her eyes said that it wasn't over. The policeman didn't answer, but he felt it too. Someone with a relentless will was… out there. Waiting. Ever so patiently.

For the first time in days, Scott Parris was able to relax as he drove back to Ignacio. He put Daisy Perika and her elemental fears far away from him. Arlo Nightbird was dead, and that was that. The bastard had gotten what he deserved for the attempted rape. Benita had smacked his skull with a rock. He had died and been chewed on by coyotes. That was grim, but it was a satisfying form of old-fashioned justice. Gorman's spirit, given enough time, would gradually heal. J. E. Hoover would have no further reason to interfere with the operation of the Southern Ute police force. Soon, Severo would be back from vacation. Parris remembered that he was due a couple of weeks vacation himself. He would visit Anne in Washington. Anne. Lovely, sweet Anne. He tried to remember her wonderful smile, the way her red hair flowed in waves over her shoulders. Her luminous brown eyes.

But wait! Anne's eyes were blue. Those radiant brown eyes… they belonged to the widow Nightbird. He gripped the steering wheel and tried to remember Anne's eyes, but what he recalled was the electric touch of Emily Nightbird's delicate fingers. When Parris arrived at the Southern Ute

Police headquarters, he was still attempting to sweep thoughts of the widow from his mind. Nancy Beyal waved at him from her radio console. He leaned on the door frame and sighed, wondering if the guilt showed on his face. "What's up, dispatcher?"

She rummaged through the papers on her desk until she found the official note pad. "You know a… Dr. Simpson?"

"Sure do. Old fishing buddy. He's the medical examiner in Granite Creek."

Nancy squinted at the paper clenched between her painted fingernails. "Dr. Simpson has returned from his vacation; he called about an hour ago. Says you should come up to his place."

"Did he say why?"

"No, but he said to get up there right away." She waved the note like a flag. "It's urgent."

He was in no mood for any of Simpson's abuse. "I'll give him a call."

"He said you'd say that," Nancy replied. "The doctor, he said 'don't call,' just deliver your…"—she blushed—"your
self to
his place. Right now."

Parris banged on the heavy oak door. After waiting for a sound from inside that did not come, he pressed on the buzzer. Presently, he heard the halting gait of the old man. Walter Simpson pulled the door open and glared under bushy brows. "Took you long enough to get here." The medical examiner turned and waddled down the long hall toward his kitchen.

Parris pushed the front door shut with his boot heel. "It was hard to stay away, considering your reputation for hospitality."

"Old men don't have to be nice," Simpson shot back, "especially when they're bachelors who do their own laundry. I enjoy being a cranky old son-of-a-bitch."

"Then you must be having a great time."

"Tea?" Simpson flicked a kitchen match with his thumb nail, touched it to a burner on his archaic gas stove. The burner hesitated, then burst into flames with an audible
whooomf
.

Parris sniffed the sour odor of a natural gas additive. "You ought to get that fixed. Something's not working right."

"Brilliant diagnosis. You should've been a plumber. Might have amounted to something."

"The wages would've been better," Parris said amiably. "But my services are in demand lately. The Southern Utes asked me to sit in for Chief Roy Severo while he's on vacation."

Simpson chuckled. "I expect you weren't near the top of their list. All the Indian cops must have turned 'em down."

This hit home. "If you merely wanted to insult me, a postcard would have sufficed."

Simpson was searching through an array of colored metal canisters for tea bags. "You know Dr. Sol Addison?"

Parris closed his eyes and searched his memory. "Sounds familiar. He a surgeon over at the hospital?"

"Fine young cutter. Just a couple of years out of University of New Mexico. Bright chap."

"That's nice to know," Parris said with a mild touch of sarcasm. "If I should need a tonsil removed, I'll look him up."

"He's not doing too well financially, just starting out. When I can, I throw some business his way."

Parris suddenly understood. "He the doc who examined the body of Arlo Nightbird while you were sunning in Hawaii?"

"Actually, I went to Tahiti this year. Much less developed. Walked miles of beaches. Met a plump native lass, not a day over fifty. Name of Lea-Lea. Goes topless." He pursed his lips suggestively. "Volunteered to nurse me in my old age."

Parris chuckled. "You are a lecherous, vulgar old man. And I don't believe a word of it."

Simpson pried a sugar bowl from the sticky oil cloth. "Dr. Addison is a sharp young chap. He's assisted me with autopsies on several occasions. With a bit more experience, he could be first rate at M.E. practice."

"But now?" Parris sipped at the tea. It looked weak, but was bitter in his mouth.

"Now," Simpson said, "and I must speak off the record

... young Dr. Addison still has a wee bit to learn about performing the autopsy."

"Like what?"

"You want some cookies with your tea?"

"What kind of cookies?"

"You like the Girl Scout kind? With peanut butter?"

"My favorite kind."

Simpson rummaged through a cabinet. "Well shoot fire. I'm all out of cookies."

Parris drained the cup. "So Addison did the autopsy on Arlo Nightbird. Did he mess up?"

"We medical doctors"—Simpson peered coldly over his trifocals as Parris—"never 'mess up.' But sometimes… being human… we make minor errors in judgment."

"And bury the evidence," Parris said. It was a tired old joke, and Simpson pretended not to hear.

"I got back a couple of days ago. Read a copy of Dr. Addison's report to the FBI on the Nightbird autopsy. He concluded that the victim's death was caused by the trauma to the skull."

"A girl he was chasing," Parris offered, "smacked him on the head with a rock."

"I had a look at the remains," Simpson said.

"And?"

"There are head wounds that are consistent with an impact from a rock."

"So?"

"The ears and testicles were not removed by predators. Someone did it with a blade. A very sharp blade. Looks like coyotes or raccoons may have chewed on the wound sites later; I suspect that's what confused my young, less experienced colleague."

"That's bad news," Parris muttered. "We have a suspect who threatened to castrate the victim." Gorman Sweetwater would return to the top of Hoover's suspect list. And it was a very short list.

"There's more," Simpson said ominously.

"Don't know if I want to hear more."

"The trauma to the skull did not result in death."

Parris lowered his cup to the soiled oil cloth. "You've got to be kidding."

"I am a wholly serious fellow when it comes to my professional business. The head wounds seemed to be the only possible cause for the victim's untimely demise. It was a natural mistake, for a beginner. Since Dr. Addison prepared the autopsy, I'll notify him of my findings. Medical courtesy, you see. It'll be up to him to generate an amended autopsy report and submit it to the FBI."