The Shaman Laughs (40 page)

Oswald Oakes felt an almost dizzy sense of exhilaration as the convertible hummed along the narrow blacktop highway, over the gentle slopes, the speedometer needle jittering around the seventy-mile-per-hour mark. He flicked a spent butt out the window and lit a fresh cigar. He leaned into a curve around a low ridge; the Miata's radials gripped tenaciously at the blacktop, as if the rubber treads were magnetized to the road. He felt wonderful… but there was something else. Something that tickled at the base of his brain, the animal part that knows without knowing how it knows. He glanced at the rearview mirror, but there was no one in sight. He tried to shake off the absurd notion that he was being followed. Hunted like an animal. There was nothing, no one, back there. Oakes realized that the suggestion had been implanted in his mind by the recurrent dream. The nightmare where he was being followed across the rolling Colorado plateau. Pursued by someone who would kill him after the sun slipped behind the jagged granite mountains. The gambler reminded himself that he was a rational man; he attempted to dismiss the fear from his mind. But it followed closely, on the road behind him. * * *

Scott Parris lifted his boot off the accelerator pedal, allowing the Volvo to slow to a crawl as he approached the gravel road that turned east off Route 149. He checked the rough sketch he had made from Oswald's instructions and tried to make sense of the hasty scrawls. It was possible that the old eccentric's directions had been confused. Oswald, unless he had already arrived, would be heading almost due north on 149 from Slumgullion Pass, but Parris was heading south, out of Gunnison. The policeman took the turn onto the sinuous trail that followed the crumbling bank of a dry arroyo. He glanced to his right. There was a low ridge that was a good match for Oswald's description, a hogback of fractured basalt supporting a sparse population of juniper and pifion. When he was, according to his odometer, one and three-tenths miles off the main highway, the policeman saw the weather-worn wooden sign nailed to a ponderosa:

BURNT CREEK RANCH—PUREBRED HEREFORDS

The mutilated bull, according to Oswald's directions, should be within a hundred yards of this spot. But where was Oswald? Then he saw a flash of blue; it was a small convertible, parked off the road behind a clump of scrub oak.

The Miata door was open, as if the driver had left in a hurry. But there was no sign of Oswald. Parris smiled as he imagined the old man's urgent desire to visit the carcass of a mutilated bull. It took all kinds. The policeman was in no hurry to get acquainted with a half ton of rotting beef. But it was a pleasure to stretch his stiff legs. The air was both sharp and sweet; the only sounds were a light breeze playing with the sage and a melodious bird song he didn't recognize. The late afternoon sun, about to sink behind a heavy cloud bank on the western horizon, was pleasantly warm on his face. He watched the silver gleam of a southbound jet gliding along at thirty thousand feet, painting a wavy discontinuous ribbon of contrail across the face of the intermittent winds. He leaned on the Miata; the hood was warm under his palm. The key was still in the ignition switch. Strange.

Door open, a key chain dangling from the ignition, and no sign of Oswald. The fellow had clearly been in a big hurry to leave his little automobile.

Then, unbidden and unwelcome, the darkness came to call. The Dread blew its cold breath on his neck… touched his groin with an icy finger. The lone bird interrupted its sweet song and flew away in a frantic flurry of thumping wings. Parris removed his revolver from the shoulder holster. He checked the cylinder to satisfy himself that his .38 Smith & Wesson was fully loaded, then jammed it back under his left armpit. The first thing to do, he reasoned, was to find Oswald. He had no idea what the second thing to do might be.

He left the Miata and headed off at a right angle to the gravel road. There might be some sort of trail, maybe a heel print in the sand. But now the sun was touching the dark cloud to cast a premature gray shadow over the high country. He buttoned his leather jacket against the gathering chill, grateful for the wool lining. The expensive garment was a birthday gift from Anne. He wondered where Anne was at this very moment. He hoped she was warm. And safe.

The almost barren landscape was punctuated with gnarled pifion, fragrant juniper, clusters of yucca spears, and massive black basalt boulders. A muddy stream ran through a shallow valley to the west. The policeman made a turn to the north, paralleling the road. He was groping his way through the shadow cast by a large basalt outcropping when he nearly stumbled onto the rotting carcass of the Hereford. Parris instinctively backed away, shielding his face from the stench that had not been noticeable a few yards away. The stark profile of the animal, legs jutting out like huge toothpicks stuck in a gargantuan plum, was unreal. An amateurish stage set. The policeman silently cursed himself for agreeing to this hurried meeting with Oswald. What did he care about some perverted fiend who took pleasure in the killing and mutilation of cattle? Thousands of cattle were slaughtered every day to sate the nation's appetite for hamburgers. Besides, the animal mutilations had nothing to do with Arlo

Nightbird's murder. He paused to lean, almost sitting, against the east side of the stone outcropping. The basalt monolith's shadow was moving eastward as the cloud-filtered sunlight dropped under the western horizon. Funny, he mused as he examined the shadow stretched out in front of him, there's a tree on top of the boulder. But how could a tree grow out of a rock? At that moment, a shaft of sunlight beamed thorough a small tear in the cloud, casting a crisp shadow of the boulder. And of the Thing that stood on the boulder behind the policeman. It was not a tree. Tall. Broad shoulders. No visible legs. One arm holding something upward, as if in a salute. And the head of the beast was the terrifying visage that haunted his dreams. The enormous head, like an oversized Wagnerian Viking, had horns.

Barely able to breathe, he slowly unzipped his jacket, then moved his fingertips toward the short grip of the .38. Inches away. Miles away. After an eternity, he felt the checkered grip under his fingers.

Then, the sky fell.

When a mere wisp of his consciousness returned, Scott Par-ris was immersed in an impossible dream. His universe was upside down. The night sky had fallen far below his feet, the earth was suspended barely above his head. His hands were tied securely behind his back; he tried to speak but his mouth was filled with a coarse mixture of sand and pebbles. A frigid wind troubled the pinon branches; he shivered convulsively. It was at this moment that Scott Parris realized that he was entirely naked.

A shadowy form moved forth from the gloom; the beast was also inverted. The shaggy creature had waited patiently for his victim to become fully aware of the fate that awaited him. The hairy phantom moved closer, wagging its great head, the short curved horns glistening wickedly in the moonlight. The single red eye winked twice, then disappeared. Parris felt something grasp his hair; the beast held a long obsidian blade before his eyes, allowing him ample time to see and understand. The blade disappeared from his view; the policeman felt its serrated edge move under his right earlobe.
No
, he thought as he closed his eyelids and clenched his teeth into the dirt that filled his mouth. No. This is not real. In a moment, I will wake up. And thank God that this was only a terrible nightmare.

The obsidian blade began to saw back and forth under his ear. Slowly. Deliberately. The beast would not hurry this experience.

This was no dream. He had but one overwhelming desire, and it was not for an end to the pain. Above all else, he strained for the ability to fight back. But it was not to be. He tried to cry out, but that was also impossible. Blood flowed in a scarlet stream from his partially severed ear, soaking his hair, dripping in heavy plops onto the ground under the pifion.

This excited the beast, who touched a fingertip to the blood, then to hungry lips, then sawed again. More vigorously now.

Parris had no doubt of his immediate future. After his right ear was severed, then the left would be sawed off. He knew only too well which portions of his body would be removed after that. Parris strained against the bonds that held his wrists. There was a sickening pop as he dislocated his right shoulder.
Merciful God
, he prayed in a silent scream,
help me
.

The beast paused sawing and licked the blood directly from the fresh wound.

Parris's mind began to slip away from this horror. He was no longer aware of the star-studded sky under his feet, nor could he see the featureless earth above his head; this was replaced by a rolling swell of iridescent blue waves breaking on a beach of black volcanic sand. Then, a turquoise sky over snow-blanketed peaks. Now he was in another place, standing on the banks of a wide river. The waters rolled over ebony boulders; the waters sang to him. Of peace and joy. His ears were filled with a cacophony of old, sweet sounds… and a great light. It was all there for him, across the river. Somewhere on the far bank, a small child laughed

… there was the unmistakable sound of a waterfall… and then, a woman's voice. A voice that he did not recognize, singing clearly over an infinite void, calling to him:…
echoes of mercy… whispers of love
...

He stood upright now, unbound. Alone on the mossy bank of this great, rolling river. Filled with longing to cross to the distant bank. Memories of the past world were fading.

Now there was a small light on the other side. The light grew larger, more luminous. More inviting. Come to Me.

Yes. I will! He stepped toward the water.

At this moment Scott Parris heard the harsh, unmistakable sound of a carbine being cocked. And the sound of another voice, this one familiar. It was loud, but it came from an impossibly distant place—a place in that other world that held dark terrors.

The Ute was, once again, imprisoned in his nightmare. "Get away from him." I know who you are. I don't want to do this. Not again.

The dark form swung its massive shoulders to glower at Makes No Tracks. The apparition wagged its shaggy head in fury and spat blood toward the Ute. Moon watched the form raise its arms to exhibit a heavy club in one hand, a glistening blade in the other. But the blade was not blue fire as it had been in his nightmare. And the only barrier between the Ute and the Beast was a deep dread. Of death. And killing.

The Beast poised, as if to attack.

The Ute stood his ground. "It's finished," he said softly.

The Beast knew this was true. It was finished. The adventure was almost over. But for whom?

Moon motioned with the barrel of the carbine. "Move away."

There was the briefest of hesitations before the shaggy figure plunged the obsidian blade toward the throat of the man who hung from the pinon branch. As the blade moved, Moon pulled the trigger. The beast did not flinch, nor did it cry out. The Ute cocked the carbine and fired again. And again.

Parris was flat on his back, looking up at the dark outline of the big Ute policeman. He rolled over and pushed himself up on one elbow. He coughed, spat sand and pebbles from his mouth, gagging in the process. He was bleeding and terribly weak; his hands were like ice and he couldn't yet feel his feet. But life was never so sweet as at this moment. Even now, he could hear the distant sound of the woman's song. Perhaps, his mind argued, it is only the wind in the pinons. "No," he muttered aloud, "it's not the wind."

The Ute was on one knee beside him. "What'd you say?"

"It's… it's not the wind."

Moon nodded. "No. I guess it's not." Delirium was not surprising, considering what the man had been through. "I sure do appreciate you holding the prisoner in custody till I got here pardner, but you just about lost an ear." It was hardly necessary to mention what other parts his friend had almost lost. The Ute pressed a handkerchief firmly against Parris's head. "Hold that snug. You've bled some."

Parris became aware of a dark form half covered by a large animal skin. "What… who is it?" Cain, of course.

Moon would not look toward the corpse or speak the name of the dead man. "He's there. Head, horns, tail, and all." Wrapped in a buffalo hide. Rolling Thunder's hide.

Moon switched on his flashlight; he illuminated the corpse. The face had a well-trimmed mustache. It was Oswald Oakes. His entire body was painted black, except for yellow circles around his eyes. Around the man's neck was a rawhide thong decorated with tooth of elk, shell of periwinkle, quill of porcupine. And there were trophies on the necklace—the shriveled ears of deer and elk and horses and bulls. Here was JoJo's Dancing Devil and Louise Marie's
loup-garou
and… and the beast he had seen in
Canon del Serpiente
. The beast that Herb Ecker had come to dance with.

"He lured me out here," Parris spat dirty saliva, "to see a dead bull."

"I know," Moon said. "Been watching him for a week or so."

Parris heard himself answer; he felt oddly detached from his voice. "What kept you?"

"Busted a fan belt out on the main road. Had to walk in." Moon held a small object close to his friend's face. "He always had one of these things stuck in his mouth."

Parris blinked and sniffed. It was the stub of a cigar; the smoking tip was a dull red ember. So this was the beast's single red "eye," that blinked in synchrony with his breathing. "How did you figure out it was…?" Parris left the question hanging in the night air.

"Hunch." Moon pitched a rumpled pile of clothes at Parris's feet. Later, when the time was right, he would tell his friend that he'd had his inspiration in the flower shop. From a television perfume commercial. My Confession. That was when he remembered Oswald's sarcastic suggestion that he pray for a confession. "My Confession," the lovely woman on the television screen had whispered, "is subtle, barely touching his consciousness." And that, of course, was exactly how the confession had been offered. Subtle. Barely touching the Ute policeman's consciousness.