White Shell Woman

by James D. Doss

  Sidewinder opened his mouth, canted his head sideways. And howled.

  He gave the homely beast a long, thoughtful look. The dog stared back with large, pitifully sad eyes. With the suddenness of the first lightning strike in a gathering storm, Moon experienced a wonderful clarity of mind. One piece of the dark puzzle fell into place. Then another.

  The Bushmans kept up their vigil at the window, peeking through a yellowed lace curtain at the boss.

  Pete’s tone was openly suspicious. “Why’s he talking to that dog?”

  Dolly looked over her husband’s stooped shoulder.

  The foreman shook his head. “The man’s daft from having his brain all scrambled.”

  “Everybody talks to dogs,” she said. “Look, Pete—the dog said something to Charlie!”

  The husband sighed. Charlie Moon’s not the only one around here that’s loco.

  Dolly Bushman jerked at her husband’s sleeve. “Get away from the window, Pete. He’s coming back.”

  THE PIE

  They had been sitting at the table for a full three seconds when Moon rapped his knuckles against the door frame.

  “Come on in,” Pete bellowed. “I thought you was on your way to pick up your aunt Dizzy.”

  “Daisy,” Dolly muttered to her husband.

  The Ute leaned on the back of a chair. “Decided to put it off for a day or two.”

  Pete Bushman shot the boss a sly look. “Don’t got the stomach for it, huh?”

  Dolly slapped his arm. “Pete—hush that kind of talk.”

  “I’ve got something else on my mind,” Moon said.

  They waited to hear what.

  He told them.

  Dolly stared at this unpredictable man. “You got pie on your mind?”

  Moon nodded.

  “Well, you’re in luck,” she bubbled. “I still got a peach cobbler in the cupboard.” She pointed at the table. “Now you sit yourself down. I’ll get you a helping.”

  “Don’t bother to cut it,” Moon said. “I’ll take it with me.”

  Pete Bushman went goggle-eyed. “You want the whole damn thing?”

  “You bet.” Moon pressed a twenty-dollar bill into his hand. “And thank you.”

  The ranch foreman eyed the likeness of Andrew Jackson. Fine-looking man. Nice head of hair.

  Dolly snatched the greenback from her husband, pushed it into Moon’s coat pocket. “You’ll not pay for anything from this kitchen.”

  Bushman fell into a sulk. “And what am I supposed to eat when I want me a piece a pie?”

  Moon grinned at Mrs. Bushman. “Let him eat cake.”

  They stood behind the window curtain, watching the boss crank up his pickup.

  “Well, that’s just the damnedest thing,” Pete Bushman said. “Took the whole pie. And you gave him the money back.”

  “It’s all right,” Dolly said softly.

  “Why’n hell is it all right?” the old man barked.

  “For one thing, he always says thank you. And for another, Charlie Moon is a big man. I expect he eats a whole pie at one sitting.”

  The ranch foreman thought about this. And decided that maybe his wife was right. She generally was. But on these cool nights, a hot dish of peach cobbler was just the thing. And Andrew Jackson was a fine-looking man.

  Just as the sun was dropping behind the cloud-shrouded granite peaks, Moon removed the warmed-over pie from the oven. Cut himself in for a quarter share. And enjoyed it. When his dessert was finished, he left the remaining portion in the kitchen. Sitting on the windowsill. Cooling.

  17

  He walked on and he found an old, old woman. He was about to kill her for she was San, Old Age, but she stopped him and said: “No, no, my Grandson, do not kill me…. Know that it will be the old people who will tell the young people what happened in years past….” The Elder Brother knew that wisdom walked with old age, and he let her live.

  —Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee

  DURANGO, COLORADO FBI FIELD OFFICE

  CHARLIE MOON SAT across the desk from Special Agent Stanley Newman. The Ute investigator was concentrating on a list itemizing what had been found in Amanda Silk’s camp trailer immediately after the archaeologist’s unusual death. Similar items were listed by category. “Clothing.” “Kitchen Utensils.” “Native American Artifacts.” Food was broken down by storage location—pantry cabinet, refrigerator, and so on. Printed reading matter was listed by category—professional journals, magazines, textbooks, reference works, her ledger, and last, a few novels.

  From the corner of his eye, Newman watched the Ute investigator study the computer printout. The federal lawman nervously twirled a ballpoint pen in his hand while he waited for Moon to say something. The silent seconds stretched into a minute. Two minutes. It seemed like hours to the impatient man from New Jersey.

  Moon turned a page. “You sure everything’s here?”

  Newman bristled at this. “Of course.”

  The Ute looked doubtful. “Maybe if I could have a look at her stuff…”

  Newman swallowed a mouthful of bitter resentment. And managed a civil reply. “The Bureau no longer has access to the personal effects of the deceased. Two days ago, we released everything to Dr. Silk’s nephew.”

  Damn! Always a day late and a dollar short. “Where could I find this nephew?”

  “Probably where Dr. Silk’s personal property is—at her home. Unless her nephew has carted it all off by now.”

  “Where’d she live?”

  Newman resisted the temptation to suggest that Uncle Sam’s FBI was not the Ute’s personal investigative organization. He forced himself to relax. Looked out the south window. “She lived down in New Mexico. Chama.”

  Moon got up to go. “Thanks.”

  The FBI agent could not resist a parting shot. “Sure you don’t need anything else, Mr. Moon? There must surely be some other service the Bureau can provide.”

  The tribal investigator took a long, thoughtful look at the fed. Hesitated. Then removed a slim piece of yellow cardboard from his shirt pocket. “Could you validate my parking permit?”

  ANGEL’S CAFE

  Charlie Moon’s entire attention was focused on a thick sandwich.

  Tribal chairman Oscar Sweetwater’s small form occupied the opposite side of the booth. The elderly Ute sipped at a glass of tepid buttermilk. And watched wistfully as the young man made short work of a double bacon cheese-burger. With the works. Oscar took a nibble from the corner of a saltine cracker. “Glad to see you forked-end down.”

  “Thanks.”

  The waitress punched a Willie Nelson number on the jukebox. The Utes listened until the Texan’s melancholy wail had ended.

  The chairman tapped a horny fingernail on the scarred Formica. Stared unblinkingly at the tribal investigator. “So.”

  Moon looked over his sandwich.

  “How d’you like your job, Charlie?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “I’ll like it better when I get paid.”

  “I’ll see they cut you a check.” Sweetwater’s smile gave way to a thoughtful frown. “I been wondering…”

  Moon waited for the chairman to complete his thought.

  “About those murders at Chimney Rock…” The old man’s voice trailed off into a hoarse whisper; he coughed into a paper napkin.

  Moon drained his coffee cup.

  The chairman cleared his throat. “I been wondering where your investigation is going.”

  The tribal investigator banged his palm on the side of a stubborn ketchup bottle. “South.”

  Oscar took a sip of buttermilk, making himself a thin white mustache. “Too bad.”

  Moon clarified his remark. “New Mexico.”

  “What’s down there?”

  “Chama.”

  A neon Coors sign sizzled and snapped in the fly-specked window.

  The chairman licked off the mustache. He remained respectfully silent until the tribal invest
igator had finished his meal. “Know what I think?”

  Charlie Moon shook his head.

  “The matukach are right.”

  “About what?”

  “Us.”

  The young man raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “We are a taciturn people.”

  Moon grunted. Only when I’m eating.

  CHAMA, NEW MEXICO

  The Ute pulled the Ford pickup under the tired, drooping branches of an aged maple. The house on the shady street was a century-old adobe covered with cracking stucco and thick mats of a vine heavy with hard red berries. The structure would have been nice to look at except for the pale-yellow two-car garage that had been attached to one end—seemingly as a malicious afterthought. Amanda Silk’s camp trailer was in the driveway, beside a Chevrolet Suburban with Delaware plates. There was a large hand-lettered sign nailed to the whitewashed trunk of an oak.

  YARD SALE—CASH ONLY

  ABSOLUTELY NO RETURNS

  A dozen people milled around aimlessly. An elderly, toothless man was departing with a satisfied smile under his nose, a brass spittoon under his arm. He looked up at Moon. “Afraid you’re too late—it’s been picked over. All the good stuff’s gone.”

  The Ute investigator hoped this wasn’t so.

  In the garage, a bald, chubby man sat at a card table—counting greenbacks into a shoe box. The tribal investigator—assuming the innocent manner of a hayseed looking for a bargain—wandered around the garage. He peered into cardboard boxes of meticulously labeled potsherds, examined rusty garden tools, inspected a greasy pop-up toaster. The melancholy residue of a life snuffed out.

  The bald man watched the potential customer poke around in a box of books. “Wanna buy something?”

  “Maybe. You a member of Dr. Silk’s family?”

  “Yeah. I’m her nephew.”

  “The one who sells the plastic gizmos?”

  The nephew’s mouth drooped into a petulant scowl. “The term in the trade is FNP. Functional Novelty Products.”

  “I saw some of your functional novelty products in your aunt’s camp trailer. You got any of ’em here?”

  “Could be.” There really is one born every minute. He rummaged around, found a paper bag, offered it to Moon. Inside was a wind-up alarm clock. A tin of sheet-metal screws. A collection of ballpoint pens secured with a rubber band. A Saturday Evening Post dated January 1947. Also a plastic mule that served as a pepper grinder. And a potbellied hippo.

  “This all you got?”

  “If you was lookin’ for something in particular, maybe I could find it for you.”

  Moon told him.

  The nephew shook his head. “I don’t remember seein’ nothin’ like that.”

  Moon continued his search. Fifteen minutes later, he found a cardboard soup box containing a half dozen books. A bottle of aftershave shaped like a 1937 Plymouth. A plastic whale. “What’re you asking for this box of stuff?”

  “Depends.” The nephew said this with a cagey look. “Somma this material could be valuable to the right collector. You a dealer?”

  “Nope.” Moon put the box back where he had found it.

  The salesman didn’t want to have to haul this junk to the Dumpster. “Okay. How about, say—thirty bucks for the whole kaboodle?”

  The Ute investigator checked out a leaky garden hose. “Fifteen.”

  “Let’s say twenty.”

  Moon turned away. “Let’s say fourteen.”

  The man’s eyes popped. “Waitaminute. You already offered fifteen.”

  “Thirteen.”

  The nephew raised his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Okay, okay—don’t get sore. It’s a deal.”

  Charlie Moon had started his pickup when he noticed the expensive sedan pulling to the curb across the street. The automobile had Colorado plates, which was not unusual in northern New Mexico. But yellow Mercedes were uncommon in Chama. And the driver of the luxury car looked familiar. As did his passenger. Well now.

  Moon watched them cross the street. The paleoastronomer seemed tense and preoccupied. Possibly with the pretty young woman who was holding his hand. Or maybe with more important business. Neither of them saw Moon until he stepped from behind a maple trunk. Melina Castro almost bumped into the Ute; she quickly released the professor’s hand.

  Charlie Moon tipped his black Stetson. “Small world.”

  “Hi,” she said in a brittle tone. “How’re things on the ranch?”

  “Quiet. Peaceful.” Since you left.

  “I’m glad you’re—uh—okay and all.” Melina’s words spilled out. “I mean—you know—after being almost killed and everything.”

  “Me too.”

  Professor Perkins seemed to be playing catch-up. “Oh yes—you’re the fellow I met at Chimney Rock. The Indian police official.”

  Moon nodded. “You were going to give me some of your technical papers to read.”

  “Oh, right. I’ll—ahh—have to get your address.” The paleoastronomer looked past Moon at the small crowd milling around the garage sale. “We—uh—thought we’d drop by and…and…” It was as if Perkins had finally used up his vast supply of words.

  Moon decided to help. “I bet you came here to buy something.”

  The academic cleared his throat for another attempt at speech. “Well, yes, actually. Amanda had quite a fine collection of Anasazi artifacts. Thought I might make a small purchase—something to remember her by.”

  “You may be too late,” Moon said. “I’m told all the good stuff is gone.”

  Melina Castro’s mouth twisted into a counterfeit smile. “Did you buy anything?”

  Moon nodded.

  The paleoastronomer was regaining his customary composure. “Get yourself some of the good stuff?”

  The Ute’s dark face was unreadable. “I hope so.”

  18

  The…Elder Brother met…a creature of bluish color. “Do not kill me,” he said. “I am Death, Grandson. Spare me, for if every creature lived there would be no place on earth for youth and laughter.” The Elder Brother left him with the others.

  —Sandoval, Hastin Tlo’tsi hee

  UNDER THE EARTH

  EXCEPT FOR THE dog, Charlie Moon thought he was entirely alone on Ghost Wolf Mesa. The sky was crystal clear from here to the end of the rainbow, the air crisp enough to break between your fingers. Moreover, a pair of magnificent red-tailed hawks soared lazily overhead. A man would not want to go overboard and claim this was a perfect day. But it’s close enough.

  The Ute left his pickup at the edge of the graveled road. Alternately followed and led by Sidewinder—who managed to sniff at everything—he headed through clumps of piñon and juniper to the spot where the wandering child had found the petroglyph. The important artifact was now covered with thick Plexiglas, set in a sturdy frame of redwood two-by-fours. A sign under the transparent cover sternly warned of dire consequences for the sorry soul who might even think of molesting this ancient sketch in stone. Mess with the Twin War Gods and the U.S. government will stop your clock.

  Sidewinder slobbered on the plastic-shrouded shrine.

  Charlie Moon studied the squat figures, each grasping a spear in his stick-hand. The Ute smiled. About a thousand years ago, a crafty old Anasazi fellow had probably enjoyed his little joke. And wished he could have come back someday and watched the fun when folks tried to decipher his simple picture. Maybe this same artisan had been the architect of the Great Pueblo out on the Crag. That structure had nonparallel sides. And as April Tavishuts had told the Indian tourists, lines drawn along the slightly cockeyed outer walls converged over here on the mesa—precisely at the mysterious stone basin. But why? And what was the purpose of the hemisphere chiseled into the sandstone? More puzzles yet unsolved. And that was good, Moon thought. It would be a far poorer world if there were no riddles left to ponder. Like what made gravity work. And why the world was filled with so-called ordinary people who never gave up—no matter how tough life got. Th
ese were very deep mysteries indeed.

  Moon left the petroglyph, traversed a rocky ravine, then made his way up a gentle slope dotted with dwarfish oak and scented pine. With the lanky dog trotting at his side, he walked another hundred yards. There at his feet was the pit house. The excavation—once so precisely geometric—was already crumbling into shapelessness. A ruin within a ruin. What had the murderer found? Maybe nothing. Scott Parris might be right. Maybe the fact that lines drawn through the pictograph spears converged at this spot was a meaningless coincidence. If that was true, Julius Santos, April Tavishuts, and Amanda Silk had all died for nothing. And I took a ride on a train with a dead man.

  His brain still ached from time to time. And there were other reminders of the concussion. Sharp twinges of pain from places in his body that had no reason at all to hurt. Flashes of light at the periphery of his visual field. Recently, on a quiet walk in Black Mule Canyon at the east end of the Columbine property, he had even experienced a hallucination. Thought he saw one of the pitukupf clan pop his little head out of a hole in a hollow pine. Moon smiled at the embarrassing memory.

  He sat down by the excavation and stared into what had almost become his grave. As if staring could help. This is dumb. I should go get Aunt Daisy, head back to the ranch. Later on, I could phone Camilla. See if she’s back from her travels. And if she’s still mad at me.

  But the unsolved problem nagged at his aching brain. What if there was something here. If the pothunter hadn’t found it, it’d probably stay in the ground for ages to come. Maybe forever. Until a few billion years hence when the sun grew hugely fat and hungry and swallowed the earth whole.

  Sidewinder flushed a cottontail, chased it for fifty yards. Then came back, his tongue lolling happily from a panting mouth. Moon wondered idly whether dogs were capable of worrying.

  In an instant, the hound lost his happy expression. Lowered his head. Stared at something Moon could not see.

  “What’s bothering you, old boy?” The Ute reached out to rub the animal’s neck. The rippled muscles were taut as spring steel.