The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  There was a sharp prod against his spine.

  Wolfe felt his entire body go taut. Navarone has slipped up on me. I’m a goner.

  The English words were spoken in the characteristic choppy dialect of an Indian: “I know you’re packing, cop—so don’t you even move a whisker.”

  The lawman felt the warmth of the man’s breath by his ear, the clumsy fumbling of a hand against his side. He’s going to take my gun, then he’ll kill me. But I ain’t leaving this world without a fight!

  In one motion, the desperate man twisted to elbow the Indian on the chin, jerk the heavy revolver from its holster, and empty the cylinder into the shadowy figure that was stumbling, turning away. The first five slugs smacked the ambusher’s thigh, hip, lower back, neck, and shoulder. The last hollow-point bullet entered the back of the Indian’s head.

  Jim Wolfe stood over the prone figure, trembling with rage and fear, pulling the trigger on empty chambers. Click. Click. Click. When he lowered the revolver, his world was perfectly silent.

  A half-dozen coyotes had ceased their canine conversation.

  Unblinking owls held their breath.

  Even the breeze was stilled.

  All the off-duty policeman could hear was the rhythmic thump of the pulse in his temple. After a seven-second eternity, the dark cloud slipped away to unveil the pale face of the moon.

  Jim Wolfe rolled the corpse over. The final .357 Magnum hollow point had done its job all too well. The top half of the Indian’s face was gone. His mouth was twisted into a knowing smirk. It took Wolfe a long moment to get hold of himself. I need to be glad that it’s Navarone that’s dead, not me. And Navarone was certainly as dead as men ever get. Not only that, I killed him in self-defense. But a search for his assailant’s gun proved fruitless. A horrifying possibility occurred to the lawman: Maybe Navarone wasn’t armed…maybe this harebrained Indian poked a stick in my back.

  In the startling manner of a suddenly rising tide, the cold truth began to wash around the SUPD cop. I have just hunted down a man I was warned to stay away from—a man I swore I’d kill. I’ve shot him six times—in the back. And him with no gun. Oh, God—I am in serious trouble. He took a deep breath. Tried to think. I’ll have to hide his body, then get out of here well before first light. If I keep my cool, I’ll be fine. But fear and fury were not to be so easily dismissed. Those hideous twins returned, hand in hand.

  Wolfe shook his fist at the dead man and shouted, “Navarone—this is all your fault!” He spat on the corpse. The gesture of contempt was considerably more than a mistake.

  It was a mortal error.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  HAUNTED

  Jim Wolfe locked himself in his apartment, peeled to the skin. His hands trembled as he soaked his blood-splattered shirt in lighter fluid, burned the fabric to ashes in the fireplace. He stood under a hot shower for twenty minutes, used half a bar of soap in a fruitless attempt to wash away the stench and stain of his sins. The off-duty police officer dressed in crisply clean khaki trousers and a white T-shirt, ground a handful of Colombian beans, made a fresh pot of strong coffee, took a few sips—grimaced. This tastes like rotten eggs!

  He plopped onto the couch, turned on the television, stared at the talking heads without comprehension. Finally, he turned off the flickering screen, stretched out on the couch. Closed his eyes.

  Sleep would not come near; even rest was denied him.

  As noon came and went, he paced about barefoot in his small parlor, smoked a pack and a half of filtered cigarettes, relentlessly relived the insane events of the previous night. From time to time, he would stop to push a curtain aside, stare out the second-story window at a neat row of Russian olives lining the space between the parking lot and the sidewalk. The normal, sunny world outside his window was like that unattainable left-is-right realm on the other side of the mirror. Recalling what he had done only a few hours ago, he shuddered, touched the flame to another cancer stick, resumed his aimless pacing.

  When the shadows had grown long and indistinct, he unlatched the door, went onto the porch. The air was fresh and clean. Crickets chit-chirped with others of their kind. Swallows flitted about in impossible accelerations. In Wolfe’s shattered mind, they were vain pretensions, fleeting shadows from other dimensions.

  For a few minutes, it was as if he were emerging from a nightmare. A mere dream.

  But a gray twilight signaled the swift approach of night.

  Wolfe retreated into his den, switched on all the lights.

  The darkness in his soul returned full force.

  Feeling weak and light-headed from lack of food, he searched the refrigerator. The bachelor folded slices of Polish ham and Swiss cheese between thick slabs of rye bread. He smeared the meat with mustard, the cheese with mayonnaise. It was his favorite sandwich. The taste was sour and metallic. He felt an overpowering surge of nausea, ran to the bathroom, vomited into the toilet. Caught in a sickening cycle of shudders and shivers and dry heaves, the policeman turned off the lights, stumbled to his bed, crawled in between the sheets, pulled the quilt up to his chin. He was convinced he would never, never sleep again.

  But shortly after eleven he fell into that bottomless abyss of unconsciousness. All who go there leave sanity behind. Living things grow cold. Dead things become alive. The imagined horror becomes real.

  HE WAS on a rocky hillock, alone in the wilderness.

  No…not quite alone.

  Someone pressed a cold barrel against his spine. Now your time is at hand.

  No. I will not die…. Wolfe turned, fired his weapon.

  The mortally wounded man bled buckets of blood, laughing all the while.

  Wolfe looked down, beheld the human being he had killed.

  While he watched, the corpse withered. Turned to ash.

  The ashes became a powder-fine dust.

  A dark, funereal wind came from the west, sighed, blew the dust away.

  The sleeper felt himself moving swiftly, to some distant upside-down place.

  Now Wolfe was stretched out on a coarse straw mat. Bleeding. He looked up at the ghost of his victim.

  The dead man’s features could not be seen. There was only an outline of his body. Blackened corpse flesh on star-studded sky. The half-moon sat precariously on the spirit’s shoulder.

  The dreamer floated up from the depths. Toward something much like consciousness. Opened his eyes.

  It was still there.

  THE PHANTOM stood just outside the sleeper’s bedroom window. Waiting for an opportunity to—

  Wolfe made a muffled scream, instinctively raised his arms in a protective gesture. Looked again.

  There was no one at the window.

  Only an opalescent moon, floating in an arid, cloudless sky.

  The sheets were wet with his sweat. Wolfe groaned. I’m losing my mind. I’ve got to do something—anything but stay cooped up here. The haunted man got out of bed, dressed himself. He stuck a fresh cigarette under his lip, pushed the revolver under his belt, went outside. He ambled aimlessly along empty sidewalks, across quiet streets, onto the cool grass of a small park, past a miniature playground, through a grove of cottonwood and willows, down to the rocky banks of a small stream. The eastern sky was flooded with a pale, frothy sea. On that faraway western shore, a million-million stars were washed away.

  Wolfe sat on a rotting stump. Thought his sickly thoughts. Maybe I’m not going crazy. Maybe Navarone’s ghost has come back to torment me. If he has, that Apache will never let me be. But what can I do about it?

  At that moment the sun came up like lightning. Warming the land. Illuminating the man.

  He knew exactly what he could do about it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THE WAGES OF SIN

  Daisy Perika’s hoax on the hapless white policeman had backfired—it was the shaman who had been cursed by the lump of turquoise. All those invented afflictions she had warned Officer Wolfe about had come to plague her. Daisy could not sl
eep at night. She coughed. She itched. Now and then, her tired old heart would miss a beat or two. Worst of all, the Ute elder could not dismiss the gnawing worry that by some means, Jim Wolfe would discover what she had done. And the white man would return, full of rage—determined to have his revenge on a poor, helpless old Indian woman who had wanted only to protect a sacred Native American relic. It was so unfair.

  Hoping it might help if she did not see or touch the Hasteen K’os Largo pendant for a week or two, she left the stolen object in the shoe box. This seemed to help. Day by day, Daisy’s symptoms began to dissipate. Her troubles, it seemed, were in full retreat. Until one sunny afternoon.

  JIM WOLFE tapped tentatively on the door. “Miz Perika—you there?”

  She was not.

  He twisted the knob. The door was unlocked.

  The desperate man stepped into Daisy’s small kitchen, called out again, “Anybody home?”

  Silence.

  The old witch is probably out gathering eye of newt or something. But I can’t wait around here all day. Maybe she won’t mind if I just borrow what I need. Having made his decision, the lawman crossed the small room in three long strides, opened the cabinet door, found the black shoe box. When he lifted the lid, he was astonished at what he found there. He smiled. Well, well—you sly old thief. He pocketed his lucky pendant, then proceeded with the more important business that had brought him to this place.

  DAISY PERIKA was prowling around on the narrow termination of Three Sisters Mesa, which towered above her home in the valley. The shaman had filled one of her apron pockets with wild buckwheat, another with seed pods harvested from dead stalks of spider milkweed. When she thought she heard the sound of an automobile in the distance, she was on her hands and knees, digging up the turniplike taproot of a storksbill. Daisy paused, cocked her head to listen. I must have company. Wondering who the caller might be, she hung the willow basket over the crook of her arm, hurried along a dusty deer path. She came to the end of mesa, looked down to see the aluminum skin of her trailer home gleaming in the sun. She squinted. There was no sign of an automobile.

  Daisy was certain her ears had not played tricks on her. There had been someone there, but they were already gone.

  Who would leave in such a hurry? Not her cousin Gorman Sweetwater. The silly man would have hung around till well after dark, in hopes of getting a free meal. And Charlie Moon would have called for her. Or, more likely, tracked her all the way up the trail to the mesa top. A happy thought occurred to the isolated woman: Maybe it was the UPS truck that had come and gone. Sure. The man in the brown uniform has probably left me a package. This possibility cheered the lonely soul. Aside from monthly checks from Social Security, Daisy did not get more than two or three useful pieces of mail in a month. And packages—well! Parcels with gifts inside were very rare treats indeed, usually appearing only on her birthday and Christmas. Why was there not an Aunt’s Day? She solemnly promised herself to write a letter to the president of the United States.

  After descending the trail down the talus slope, Daisy mounted the porch steps, put the basket down, leaned on a stout oak staff.

  Her door, which was rarely locked, was not quite closed.

  The visitor had been inside.

  Maybe he still is. For a tense moment, she stood on the porch. No, he must be gone or I’d have spotted his car from up on the mesa. Unless there was two of ’em and one stayed behind. But I can’t stand out here all day. Daisy Perika took a deep breath. Well, here goes. Grasping the oak staff in one hand, she pushed the door open. As soon as she was in her kitchen, she had a strong sense that there was no one in her trailer. She stood very still. Looked around to see whether anything had been disturbed.

  On the linoleum she had swept just this morning, there was something that did not belong there. A little spot of yellowish white powder. With a painful effort and much pathetic grunting, the old woman got down on her knees. Touched the tip of her finger to the gritty stuff, peered at the sample. It looks like…Daisy touched it to her tongue. It is. Instantly, she understood what had happened. She went to the cabinet over the sink, opened the painted wooden door, reached for the black shoe box. Opened it.

  The K’os Largo pendant was gone.

  And that was not all.

  LIFE WAS good for Charlie Moon. He had a fine red pickup under him, was rolling along south on Route 151 toward the jutting thumb of Navajo Lake. Off to his right, Chimney Rock tickled the belly of a low-hanging cloud. A handsome raven was perched on a telephone pole; it squawked and stretched a wing as he passed—as if to direct the Ute to the Promised Land. Grateful for all blessings, Charlie Moon tipped his Stetson to salute the helpful bird.

  Another mile of his life slipped by, a well-spent minute passed into history.

  He lowered the window. Sage-scented air wafted in, sweet with the promise of rain. He turned on the FM radio, heard an NPR announcer in Washington, D.C. say something about trouble brewing along the border between China and North Korea, quickly poked the CD player button. LeAnn Rimes began to croon “Good Lookin’ Man.” Yes indeed. Moon hummed along. Miss James beside me and this would be perfect….

  But Miss James was not beside him.

  Near-perfect moments are fleeting phantoms.

  His cell phone made a burbling sound. Like a fringed cockatoo choking on a peanut, he thought. Just last year, Charlie Moon had witnessed just such a distressing event in an upscale Denver pet store. The magnificent, three-thousand-dollar bird had survived.

  Again the cockatoo gagged.

  Moon reached into his jacket pocket for the instrument. “Yeah?”

  Aunt Daisy’s brittle voice crackled in his ear. “Charlie—is that you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Yup?” There was a derisive snort. “That’s no way for a grown man to answer a telephone.”

  “Excuse me, please. This is Charlie Moon. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking to—a shy lady admirer who’ll only talk to me on the phone?”

  “It’s me, you big jug-head.”

  “That was my second guess. What’s up?”

  “Somebody has been snooping around in my house.”

  The lawman’s smile faded. “Are they gone?”

  “Long gone.”

  “You sure?”

  “Car pulled away, oh—almost half an hour ago.”

  It would take about that long for whoever it was to drive the rutted dirt lane from Daisy’s home to Route 151, and Moon was three miles from the junction. Once he encountered the paved road, the intruder might head south and get a good head start. Moon pressed the accelerator. “Look, I’m not far away. Maybe I can—”

  “And the scoundrel messed around in my kitchen.”

  On the list of a hundred sure ways to get on the wrong side of the old woman, “messing around in my kitchen” was right up there in the top ten.

  There was an uneasy pause before she continued. “He took something outta the cabinet over the sink.” As was her custom, she waited for him to ask.

  “What was taken?”

  Daisy would certainly not mention the famous Navajo shaman’s pendant, and she hated to tell her nephew about the other thing. But something must be done about this outrage, and Charlie Moon was the man to do it. “A little plastic bag.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Uh…about half a pound of yellow cornmeal.”

  Moon frowned at the long ribbon of asphalt stretched out ahead of the red F-350. “Cornmeal—that’s all?”

  Daisy’s voice betrayed the fact that she was getting testy. “There was some baking powder in it. A pinch or two of salt. About a teaspoon of sugar. And just a little bit of paprika.” She groaned. “My legs are hurting from all the walking I’ve done today.”

  “Maybe you’d better sit down and rest awhile.”

  She leaned on the small dining table, seated herself in a straight-back chair, groaned with relief. “Ah—that’s lots better.”

  “Good. No
w do you have any idea who might’ve—”

  “Sure I do.”

  Silence.

  Moon smiled at his reflection in the windshield. “Take all day if you want to. I got nothing important to do.”

  “It was that matukach policeman you brought out here a while back—the one who needed doctoring.”

  Charlie Moon thought this to be highly unlikely. “Officer Wolfe?”

  “That’s the one.”

  It seemed like a really dumb question. “Uh—here’s what I don’t understand. Why would Jim Wolfe—or anybody for that matter—drive all the way out to your place to steal a handful of cornbread mix?” He laughed. “Did he take some lard? Or a frying pan?”

  “I am old and tired and cranky. Don’t you get smart with me.”

  “Okay. But you have to admit, it seems like a pretty doggone strange thing for a person to do.”

  The old woman tried to sound as if her interpretation of the theft was the most logical response imaginable. “Maybe he thought he was stealing corpse powder.”

  Moon’s pickup topped a steep hill, hurtled down the other side. “Would you please repeat that?”

  “Maybe because—”

  “Just the last part.”

  “Corpse powder.”

  Corpse powder? The tribal investigator attempted to digest this assertion. It still didn’t make any sense. Unless…well of course. He smiled at a mental image of his aunt spoofing the superstitious white man. “I wonder—what would lead Officer Wolfe to believe you kept something in your kitchen like…ah…corpse powder?”

  The shaman hesitated. “Who knows why these crazy white people believe all the peculiar things they do?” She sighed, shook her head. “Charlie, they are not like us.”

  Moon encountered a black-and-white Subaru Forester heading north. “I’ll talk to you later.” He jammed his boot heel on the brake pedal, did a skidding 180 on the two-lane.