The Shaman Laughs (9 page)

The massive form of the buffalo appeared on a low rise, his hoofs striking sparks on the flinty soil. The great animal paused and gazed down at the aged shaman, whose form was now that of a slender young woman.

In a way that Daisy did not understand, the buffalo spoke to her. She did not hesitate at his summons; the young woman ran to the animal and leaped onto his broad back. The shaman held on with both hands to tufts of coarse hair in his shaggy mane. She could feel his great muscles ripple under her thighs as Rolling Thunder bolted across the grassy plain toward a dark wood. Here, the beast paused, puffing great billows of moist breath that became a fog over the forest floor. The sky was hidden from her view; great trees spread their branches over a barren floor that, except for a sickly gray moss, was devoid of any living plant. The largest trees were petrified, with leaves of glass, curly bark that had the texture of black granite. She was astonished to see many animals standing in this eerie forest. Deer. Elk. And cattle. They appeared to have been placed with great care. Some had postures that suggested movement: a poised hoof there, a lifted head here, nostrils that seemed to sniff the still air. But these creatures did not move. Nor did they breathe. Were they, like the trees, also made of stone? Big Ouray, Gorman's brawny Hereford bull, stood among them. His stout legs were spread in a wide stance, his head raised high. The bull's mouth yawned open in a silent bellow.

The shaman slid from the broad back of the animal. Then, the buffalo began to walk among the lifeless creatures. The old woman in the young woman's body followed the great beast.

She reached out to touch the glossy coat of a bull elk. No. This hide was quite real, but she could feel no ribs beneath the soft skin. And for the eyes—the eyes were cold. Dead. Gingerly, Daisy touched the tip of her finger onto the shining surface of a large brown eye. The orb was hard, exactly like a polished stone. A glassy eye that stared. At nothing.

She heard a clicking, a dry rattle. The sound was behind her, near the great buffalo. Daisy turned, "Ayyyaaa…" the shaman muttered, "
nuu-oo-vu…
!" Terrified that she would attract attention to her presence in this place, Daisy clamped a hand over her mouth. What she saw was a human skeleton, with pale bones like dirty chalk. The thing squatted on the moss, taking no notice of either the shaman or the enormous buffalo. The apparition clasped its bony hands together and held them close to a cage of ribs—as if it held something quite precious. Now the hands moved forward; the contents of the skeleton's fingers dropped upon the moss, and the dreadful skull was tilted quizzically as if to observe the objects through those empty eye sockets. Daisy, in spite of her loathing, was drawn toward this creature with neither flesh nor sinew. She leaned with her hands on her knees, to examine the treasure the skeleton had dropped. There were three potsherds, rectangles whose edges had been ground smooth. The chips of clay were white, like the creature's bones. Each potsherd was inscribed with red dots and black lines. She gazed up hopefully at the buffalo. What did this mean? The buffalo's eyes were now like embers of fire. She turned to see whether the skeleton had retrieved the potsherds, but now the bones were disarticulated and strewn across the moss.

She heard the buffalo snort, then bellow—the force of the blast from his roar snapped branches off the petrified trees and knocked Daisy to the ground. He pawed at the moss with a hoof that glistened like polished brass; the blue fire that he struck from the flinty ground was like lightning, and thunder boomed over the forest. The shaman screamed and clamped her hands over her ears in a vain attempt to shield herself from the terrible sounds. Then, deep silence. The enormous buffalo was now also a statue; with glassy eyes that stared blankly.

A heavy, smothering darkness fell over the dead forest. The shaman felt her young woman's body dissolve like mist. Daisy Perika was happy to leave this place.

Nancy Beyal looked up from her paperback romance to see a tall man with a silly grin on his face. She grinned back. "Hello, Scotty… I mean Chief Parris." She turned to a uniformed officer who appeared to be in her late forties. "Meet Sally Rainwater. She's been around a long time. Knows just about everybody in Ignacio."

Sally offered Parris her hand and nodded toward a husky young man with a neatly trimmed crew cut who was pretending to read the log book. "This is Daniel Bignight. He's a recruit from Taos Pueblo. Been with us about a year." Bignight looked up and smiled shyly.

Nancy pushed her chair away from the radio console. "We were expecting you. Glad you're going to sit in for Chief Severe" She hid the lurid cover of the book with both hands.

"Well, Nancy, I hope to do a little more than 'sit' while I'm here." He raised an eyebrow at her book. "What're you reading today?"

Nancy hesitated, then removed her hands from the cover. "It's a sort of a historical novel." Romantic thriller.

Parris glanced at the sensational illustration on the cover. A pale but handsome vampire was licking blood from a lovely woman's throat. He read the title aloud. "
Aldea del
… uh…
Sombras
. What's that mean?"

"Roughly translated," she said, "it means Village of Shadows. There's this really terrible dentist from Mexico City who hypnotizes these poor country girls, see, and then he… well, it's a part of my correspondence course in conversational Spanish." Nancy opened a drawer to reveal a stack of cassette tapes, "but I don't guess you're much interested in—"

"Sure I am. Maybe I could borrow the tapes when you're done. Picking up a little Spanish might help me on the job." Might impress Anne, who was fluent in several languages.

Nancy closed the drawer. "You want to see Chief Sev-ero's… I mean
your
office?"

"Later. Right now I'd like to see Charlie Moon."

"He's at Angel's Diner," Nancy Beyal said, "feeding his big face."

"Then I'll drop by and have lunch with him. Anything much going on?"

Nancy smiled again. "You mean crime-wise?" She paused to search her memory. "Nothing much, I guess. Slow, like usual. We picked up a drunk cowboy from Cortez last night; he was takin' a pee right in the middle of route one fifty-one. Bozo threw up all over the floor. I'm the jailer too, so I had to mop it up. That's about all I guess."

Parris noticed that she was looking over his shoulder and smiling her official smile. "May I help you sir?"

Parris turned to see a thin man, decked out in highly polished cowboy boots, new jeans, and a beautiful fringed leather jacket. Topped off with an expensive felt hat that a prosperous cowboy might wear to a funeral. But there was something about the way the fellow carried himself; a cold aura of confidence surrounded him.

The stranger flipped the leather cover to display his credentials. His words were clipped and precise. "James Hoover. Special agent, FBI."

Parris coughed to cover a grin; Hoover's lips went thin.

Nancy brushed around Parris to have a close look at the I.D. "Hmmm." She mouthed the words as she read the credentials. "James E. Hoover." She glanced quickly at the face under the Stetson. The special agent's expression was a mixture of apprehension and defiance.
One smart remark
, the hard eyes said,
and you'll regret it
! This J. E. Hoover's face was thin and pale. Eyes with cold, fishlike retinas. No resemblance to the round, cherubic face of the Old Man.

Parris offered a hand, which was accepted after a momentary hesitation. The man's palm was cold, his fingers long and delicate, almost feminine.

"I'm Scott Parris, I'm going to be—"

"You," the pale man interrupted easily, "are acting chief of police until the real chief returns from his vacation. Until then, you are responsible for the operation of this…"—Hoover glanced glumly at his surroundings—"this… ahhh… this establishment of law and order." Rainwater and Bignight had vanished.

Parris grinned apologetically at the young woman. "This is Nancy Beyal. She's the dispatcher and, most of the time, the person who actually keeps the place shipshape."

Hoover's gaze slowly took in the room. Shelves filled with worn manuals and leather-bound law books. A scarred oak table with an electric hot plate and a half-dozen coffee cups. A scattering of gray metal desks, all littered with papers. He glanced into the chief's unoccupied office; there was a hat rack without a hat. But there was a loaded revolver hanging on a gun belt. And muddy boots in a dusty corner. He returned his attention to the young woman in front of him. The dispatcher was slipping a paperback novel into a desk drawer. The special agent almost smiled; the only sound was the clicking of a large wooden clock on the wall. "Keeping this place shipshape must keep you pretty busy."

"Where's Newman?" Nancy asked meekly, "he's been our contact at the Durango FBI office for years."

"Agent Newman is on sick call," Hoover said, "I'll be his replacement until he mends."

Nancy's fingers found a rosary in her purse; she would pray for Newman's speedy recovery.

"Where is Sergeant Charles Moon?" Hoover asked in an uninterested tone. "I understand he's the senior cop around here."

"He's having lunch up the road at Angel's Diner; come on up for a bite and I'll introduce you." Parris turned and winked slyly at Nancy. "I'm sure Charlie will be happy to meet you." The FBI hired and trained its agents with uncommon care and, as a consequence, had remarkably few sons-of-bitches. This surly one, with the unfortunate moniker, had probably been sent to the boondocks to get him out of Parker's hair.

When they were outside in the cold glare of sunlight, Parris turned to block Hoover's path. The special agent stared at him quizzically. "Nancy, Charlie Moon, all the Ute cops are top notch," Parris said evenly. "They'll be a great help to you." Would this cold man get the point?

Hoover's voice was flat, like his eyes. "The Bureau is grateful for this piece of information." He turned and slipped into a gray Ford sedan. "I've got to check in with the Denver field office. I'll be at that greasy spoon in twenty minutes to meet Sergeant Moon." He glanced meaningfully at Parris before slamming the door. "You be there."

Parris watched the Ford disappear; he didn't realize that his right hand was clenched into a fist. "Well," he muttered, "there goes a man Will Rogers never met."

Special Agent James E. Hoover slammed the door to his room on the ground floor of the Sky Ute Lodge; he immediately threw the deadbolt lock and attached the brass security chain with a hand that trembled. He sat down in a padded chair, and began to rock. Back and forth, a hundred times, then a dozen more. He began to shiver, as if it was cold. The temperature in the room was eighty degrees. The coldness was inside the man. The coldness had been there since he was a child, raised by a father in whose mouth butter would not melt. But now, in the man who had been noted for his raw courage, there was a formless, throbbing fear. And a growing darkness.

Hoover fumbled in his briefcase until he found a small plastic bottle that had been purchased in Juarez, Mexico. It had no label, but there were yellow tablets inside, somewhat smaller than aspirin. He stumbled toward the bathroom. Hoover placed two of the pills on his tongue; the taste was bitter. After a moment's hesitation, he added a third tablet and washed the trio down his throat with a glass of water. He waited for the effect. It came, but it was not enough. Not enough to drive the Darkness away. With fingers that trembled, the thin man removed a panel from the inside lid of his suitcase. Under the panel was a zippered leather pouch. Inside the pouch was a brown glass bottle containing a clear liquid. There were also three tuberculin syringes in the pouch. He withdrew two cubic centimeters of the transparent liquid, rolled up his trouser leg, rolled down his white sock, and injected the liquid into a vein.

He sat down on the bed, closed his eyes, and hugged a pillow to his chest. "Ahhh… oh yes… yes."

Charlie Moon heard the familiar sound of Scott Parris's measured stride. He looked up from his plate of roast beef and mashed potatoes. The policeman smiled. "What's cookin' pardner?"

Parris scooted into the booth and grinned across the table at the big Ute. A couple of minutes with Hoover had seemed like a week; it was good to see a friend's face. He grasped Moon's giant hand. "I appreciate you setting this job up for me, Charlie. I can use a few weeks away from Granite Creek. It's been hectic."

"You need to slow down some." Moon passed a menu to his friend. "Give your shadow a chance to catch up with you."

At this moment, a thin man wearing a four-day beard and a tattered black trench coat appeared. Most of the fingers were missing from his brown cotton gloves. He saluted

Moon in a stiff military fashion, but took no notice of Parris. "Top o' the morning to you, Sergeant-Major." He had the barest trace of a British accent.

Moon nodded. "And a good morning to you, Taxi. How's the writing career getting along?"

Taxi pulled a sheaf of papers from his coat pocket. "It has taken three decades of intensive research, but I have," he announced dramatically, first looking over his shoulder to see if anyone overheard, "finally unraveled the mystery of the so-called Kennedy assassination."