The Shaman Laughs (30 page)

He looked through the window at the glowing promise of morning in the eastern sky.

Scott Parris removed five .38 cartridges from the cylinder of his snub-nosed Smith & Wesson and dropped them into his pocket. He carefully twisted the helical wire brush through the barrel, then wiped the blued surface with an oily rag. He was interrupted by Nancy Beyal, who slammed a stack of files on the desk by his cleaning kit.

"Performance appraisals," the dispatcher said cheerfully. "Due in the tribal offices by Friday. We'll need your John Hancock on the cover memos."

He holstered the revolver and stared blankly at the stack of personnel folders on Roy Severo's desk, wishing them away. But he knew the drill. If he was late, the tribal council, not to mention the bean-counters over at Indian Affairs, would be very unhappy. He scanned a few personnel folders: Roy Severe had already made detailed notes on the performance of each member of his staff. It was primarily a matter of translating the information onto the proper forms. Parris remembered his fantasies about retiring from the Chicago force to a slower, simpler life in Colorado. Endless paperwork had not been part of the vision. And this type of work was hardly what he had in mind when he accepted this temporary position with the Southern Utes. He searched through the stack of folders until he found Charlie Moon's personnel records. Nothing special here. Moon had been on the force for sixteen years, had a good record, received annual raises that regularly fell a bit under the rate of inflation. Time off to join his Army Reserve unit and do eight months during the Gulf War. It was the same story you'd find in any police station across the country. The enforcers of the law becoming steadily poorer while the purveyors of mind-rotting drags generated huge accounts in Bahamian banking establishments. Parris thumbed through the folder until he found Moon's employment application. The paper was yellowed and cracked around the edges. Five years at Fort Lewis College. But wait. Under the blank for Aliases and Other Names Used, someone had penciled in a few letters. A Ute word? Maybe two Ute words. He felt eyes on the back of his neck and glanced over his shoulder. Nancy Beyal had returned. "Can I help with anything?"

"Yeah. Any notion what this is?" He pointed at the penciled phrase.

She frowned at the entry. "Must be Charlie's Indian name. I'm surprised it's in his file. Mostly, Indian names are kind of private."

"You know what it means?"

"Hmmm.
Ka-Nawaa-vi
. My Ute is a little rusty, but I think it means something like 'Leaves No Tracks.'"

Parris smiled. The thought of the oversized Ute walking without making tracks was comic. "Leaves No Food," he said, "would be more appropriate."

Charlie Moon and Scott Parris arrived at Angel's Diner to discover Homer Tonompicket sitting in a corner booth, issuing a fishing license to a tourist. The pale, sunburned man's mouth hung open; his shifting eyes revealed his anxiety. "Whaddaya mean,
mink
trout?"

Homer repeated his instructions with the patience of his calling. "You can take rainbows and native browns," the game warden said evenly, "also cutthroat and greenback cutthroat, brook and brook stickleback. Creel limit and size is right here on these papers. No limit on catfish or carp or suckers. But," he assumed a frown that rolled up thick wrinkles above his brows, "no mink trout. There's a big fine if you take one." Homer was unaware that Moon stood behind him. "But I guess it's not likely
you'd
hook one. They're kinda rare." The game warden turned his attention to his breakfast and pointedly ignored the greenhorn.

The fisherman hesitated, then nibbled at the bait. "Rare, are they?"

"Mink trout," Homer said matter-of-factly, "they been on the endangered list since nineteen and seventy-five." He poured a blue packet of sweetener into his coffee. "Local breed," he added proudly.

Moon went to the counter and told Angel what he wanted for lunch; Parris stood behind the game warden and watched Tonompicket's performance.

"Why," the fisherman asked suspiciously, "do they call 'em mink trout?"

"Fur," Tonompicket said with the mild annoyance of one who must explain the obvious to an ignoramus. "Mink trout has fur."

The tourist was wide-eyed with astonishment. "Fur? You really mean… like hairs?"

This guy wasn't born yesterday. Maybe day before. "Well," Tonompicket said patiently, "it's more like"—he paused and looked up at the barest hint of a future beard on the young man's chin—"… kind of a short fuzz. Like on a peach." He shoved a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. "It's what you call a 'daptation. Their coat gets heavy in winter when the streams gets iced up. Them eensy little hairs trap air bubbles; for insulation." He leaned back, triumphant in his lucid explanation of this wonderful natural phenomenon.

The tourist shook his head. "Well that's just about the damnedest thing I ever heard of."

"Last time we did a survey," Homer spread a gob of strawberry jam on his sopaipilla, "State Game Department estimated less than four hundred minks left in the Animas, no more'n a couple of dozen in the Piedra. I haven't had report of any in the Piflos in a real long spell." He took a bite of toast, then turned his gaze back to the confused tourist. "Not likely you'll see hide nor hair of one. But if you do," Tonompicket shook his fork in a stern gesture, "you'd best throw it back. There's a whoppin' big fine if you keep a mink. Back in eighty-three, a federal judge up in Denver fined a preacher from Salt Lake fifteen hundred dollars, and gave him thirty-four days in jail."

The tourist, who was a notary public, had no sympathy with those who trifled with the law. "Well, it was his own fault. Any damn fool ought to be able to recognize a fish with hair on it."

"Not necessarily," Homer said in a cautionary tone. "In the summer, mink trout sheds most all of their fur. They gets their thick coat back come cold weather. Between the end of May and, say, middle of October, an inexperienced fisherman," he looked pointedly at the stranger, "can mistake a mink for a native brown. Don't matter none to the law, though. Ignorance," Homer Tonompicket said firmly as he banged his cup on the table to attract Angel's attention, "ain't no excuse."

The tourist wandered off, shaking his head. Might be better to go rent a boat down on the San Juan. The guides there would know one of those minks if a fellow hooked into it. Fishing was getting to be a damn lot of bother.

Moon leaned over the game warden's shoulder. "Good morning, Homer."

"Why hello, Charlie." He nodded amiably at Parris. "Why don't you fellows take a load off."

"Nice to see you're taking good care of our visitors," Moon said.

"Have to. Tourism is the tribe's number one industry." The tribal leaders had long since given up hope of convincing Tonompicket that baiting tourists was counterproductive and unprofessional; having fun with the greenhorns was one of the few forms of entertainment that Homer Tonompicket still enjoyed. The game warden yelled at Angel, who promptly filled his coffee cup. He stirred his fresh coffee, then looked across the table at Moon. "Almost forgot to tell you. I just locked my nephew up in your jailhouse."

Moon helped himself to a sopaipilla on Homer's plate. He opened it with a spoon handle, and squirted honey from a sticky plastic bottle into the hollow pastry. "Which nephew?" Homer had an excess supply of nephews. Angel put a plate in front of Moon.

Homer watched Moon eat the sopaipilla, and licked his lips. "JoJo."

"JoJo? What'd he do?" Moon winked at Parris. "Take a mink-trout?"

"He knows better'n that," the game warden said without smiling. "I think he was poachin' for deer. Over on Three Sisters Mesa."

"You
think
he was poachin' deer?" Moon renewed his interest in a greasy forkful of
chile verde
. "You got any evidence that'll stand up before the magistrate?"

Homer had a faraway look. "Caught him runnin' down the highway last night with his carbine."

"Lucky you were there." Homer had an uncanny knack of showing up exactly where he was needed. Except when Rolling Thunder disappeared. "JoJo have a deer carcass on his person?"

"Nope. But I hauled him in anyway, put him in your clink. Thought you'd want to hear his story before we cut him loose."

Moon pushed his plate aside. "You holding out on me, Homer?"

"It'd be best," the game warden said, "if you hear what JoJo has to say for yourself."

JoJo Tonompicket was hunched forward on the cell bench, his face in his hands. He didn't respond when Moon entered the dimly lit chamber; JoJo was whispering something that the lawmen couldn't quite hear, except for a brief phrase that sounded like "…forgive me Father for I have sinned…" Parris waited outside the cell, hoping the prisoner wouldn't notice his presence.

Moon clamped a big hand on the young man's shoulder. "What's cookin', JoJo? How come you're taking up space in my jailhouse?"

The youth took no notice of the policeman's presence.

"May have to charge you rent; this is one of my choice efficiency apartments." Moon sat down beside JoJo; the chains supporting the bench groaned. "Goes for fifteen bucks a day. Ten if you eat the food."

The young man looked up through moist, bloodshot eyes. "Dammit, Charlie, you're goin' to break this bench and then we'll both fall on our ass." JoJo suddenly remembered his situation. "But I guess it don't make no difference nohow. I'm goin' to die."

Moon nodded at this logic. "Uh-huh. When do you expect this to happen?"

"Soon. Prob'ly at midnight." Bad things always happened at midnight.

He frowned at the prisoner. "You sick?"

"My soul," the young man said with a theatrical air, "has gone to the Place of the Dead. All I am now is a body. An empty shell with no soul." JoJo hugged his knees; he rocked back and forth, groaning.

Moon spoke matter-of-factly, as if they were discussing a lost puppy. "When was the last time your soul was with you, JoJo?"

"When I was hunting deer. Up by the Three Sisters."

"The way I figure it," Moon said, "taking a deer outta season, that'll get you thirty days and, if you back-talk your uncle Homer, he takes your rifle." He paused. "It don't cost you your soul."

JoJo shuddered as he recalled the apparition. "This ain't about no damn deer."

"We'll let you walk on that charge, long as you promise not to harvest any more of the People's animals out of season. Now tell me what happened to you on the mesa last night."

JoJo rocked back and forth, moaning pitifully.

"You want some breakfast? Got some glazed doughnuts. I could get you some black coffee."

JoJo paused between moans. "Not the kind of coffee you serve in this rattrap."

Moon smiled. JoJo's soul was alive and kicking. "Tell me about last night."

"It won't help none, I'm gonna die. A man without a soul can't live."

"Well, it'll help us police do our job," Moon said. "You tell me about it, I'll make sure it don't happen to anybody else. Your brothers, they hunt up there by the Three Sisters. You wouldn't want one of your family to have the same problem, now would you?"

JoJo thought about this. "No." He rubbed his eyes with the back of a grimy hand. "I guess not."

"Then tell me. You do the right thing, I'll lay you five to one your soul will come back."

The young man breathed deeply to steady his nerves. "It was before daylight. I heard this awful screeching sound, like a wail… I crawled over to the edge and looked down into Snake Canyon, and there it was, dancing around this fire, making them awful noises." JoJo shuddered.

"What was it?" Moon asked gently.

"It was all hairy, with a tail. And…"—he laid a finger beside each temple to illustrate his nightmare—"it had horns."

Moon suddenly felt as if his blood had turned to ice. He spoke softly. "Horns?"

"It was
Kwasigeti
," JoJo said with trembling lips, "I saw the Devil dancing." He turned to look at the policeman. "And you know what else?"

"What else, JoJo?"

"The Devil… he only had one eye."

"One eye?" Moon felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. This was getting to be an interesting devil.

JoJo returned to his fetal position, hugging his knees. "One eye. And it was red. Like a big coal of fire straight from hell!"

Moon wouldn't look at Parris after he locked the cell door. "You hear that?"

"I heard. Is this kid reliable?"

"He's all right," Moon said. "Drinks a little now and then, but JoJo don't generally lie."

"Where's this Snake Canyon?"

"Just on the other side of Three Sisters Mesa from
Canon del Espiritu.'"

"Near where the bull was mutilated? And Mr. Nightbird was…"

"Just over the mesa."

Parris's hands felt oddly numb; he flexed his fingers to encourage circulation. "You figure this kid saw our bull mutilator?"

"Most likely." Or something.

"Well," Parris said, "five'll get you ten, he also saw the fellow who found Mr. Nightbird after Benita Sweetwater left him. And took the opportunity to clip his ears and family jewels."

The Ute's nightmare danced once more before his face. A helpless, naked figure—hanging upside down in a tree. A horned beast with blood dripping from its lips… slowly dismembering its human victim. Screams. He turned away and suppressed a shudder. Moon tried to smile but the effort hurt his face. "Funny thing, though… the kid thinks he saw the Devil."

"I don't expect," Parris said, "he saw
the
Devil. But who knows," the
matukach
policeman continued with a thoughtful expression, "maybe the kid saw one of ol' Scratch's pardners." Like Cain.