The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE SHAMAN’S REMEDY

  Jim Wolfe parked his Subaru half a mile from Butterfield Mesa, took exaggerated care to close the car door quietly, making a barely audible click. He stood quite immobile—a mere shadow-man, infected with a palpable emptiness.

  A dry breeze rattled the pulpy leaves on a dwarf oak.

  Wolfe turned his face toward that place where he had left the Indian’s mortal remains. He stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, felt the reassuring lump of the plastic bag.

  Might as well get the job done. He trudged off toward an uncertain destiny.

  CHARLIE MOON stood on the bushy side of a ridge, his slender frame masked by juniper and piñon and the instincts of a thousand generations of painted warriors, stealthy mammoth hunters, sly prowlers of dark forests. The modern Ute raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes, turned the knurled focus knob. Jim Wolfe’s wispy form jumped into startling clarity. The tribal investigator frowned over the eyepieces. Wolfe was standing by an oblong cairn of stones. Maybe this was not a fool’s errand.

  The white man stared at the pile of rocks, leaned over as if to pick up a stone, hesitated.

  Moon watched through the excellent German optics.

  Wolfe straightened his back, removed a glistening packet from his jacket pocket.

  Okay. Give him enough rope to hang himself with.

  The watched man poured a bit of gritty powder into his palm. Began to sprinkle it onto the stones.

  Moon grimaced. That’s not the way. Had Aunt Daisy forgotten to tell him the rules? Corpse powder had to be sprinkled directly onto the body.

  As if he had heard Moon’s thought, Jim Wolfe paused, assumed the stony-faced expression of one who must do the unthinkable. He squatted, began the grisly task. In no hurry, he removed one stone. Then another.

  Moon was greatly relieved that Wolfe was doing the thing right. Not that there was any such thing as a magical powder that would keep a malevolent ghost from tormenting his enemy’s soul. Haunts and magic potions—it was all old-women’s talk, invented to frighten unruly children and relieve credulous folk of their money.

  Jim Wolfe was making two neat piles of stones. One on his right, another on his left.

  This could take a long time. But Charlie Moon had no option except to stay where he was, watch the white man uncover the corpse—presumably of some unfortunate he had killed. But one must not jump to conclusions. Though a sizable portion of homicides are cold-blooded murder, a few are accidental and others justifiable as self-defense. But violent deaths of human beings have this in common: Every one must be investigated by the legally constituted authorities. The tribal investigator would wait until Jim Wolfe began putting corpse dust on the body before he approached to make an arrest. He imagined how surprised Wolfe would be to see him.

  It was the Ute who was surprised. Moon blinked, readjusted the binoculars. What’s going on?

  Jim Wolfe was on his hands and knees, flinging stones this way and that. From a hundred yards away, Moon heard the man screaming what seemed to be a mix of pleas and curses.

  With a suddenness more eerie than his outburst, the white man fell eerily silent.

  WOLFE GOT to his feet, reeled like a drunk, stared at the stones. He began to turn his head. The terrified man examined the twilight landscape of swollen ridges, arroyo scars in the earth’s skin, mesas stitched like black patches onto a blue velvet sky. The white SUPD cop took another long, thoughtful look at the scattered stones. Feeling like a child caught in a nightmare, he tried to think straight. This is crazy. It doesn’t make any sense at all. He turned to look down the broad valley, to the spot between the massive sandstone mesas—where the Apache had left his truck.

  Felix Navarone’s 1957 Chevrolet pickup was not there.

  MOON WATCHED through the binoculars as the drama unfolded.

  Wolfe had broken into a headlong run. He tripped over a twisted piñon root, tumbled down the bank of a dry arroyo, scrambled to regain his footing, ran like a man pursued by an invisible something. Wolfe disappeared from view. A minute later, Moon heard the off-duty cop’s Subaru start up, tear off toward the highway.

  TRANSFIXED WITH wonder, Charlie Moon tried to make some sense of what he had witnessed. Jim Wolfe was a pretty tough customer. What could such a man have found under the stones that would scare him half to death? As he made long strides toward the ridge that Wolfe had vacated in such haste, images of a rotting, half-human corpse flitted through the dark corners of the Ute’s mind. Moments later, the tribal policeman planted his boots where Jim Wolfe had stood. He stared. There was no corpse. Only a scattering of stones.

  SUMMONED

  HIS FINGERS resting lightly on the leathered steering wheel, Charlie Moon maneuvered the machine along the gravel road, north into the gathering darkness. The truck engine hummed contentedly.

  He mused about Jim Wolfe’s peculiar behavior. There’s something going on here—something I should be able to see. Despite the puzzle of a man who stole cornbread mix from an old woman, drove into the reservation wilderness, threw a bunch of rocks around, then ran off like a grizzly was snapping at his shirttail, Moon was not disturbed. On the contrary, the drive was soothing. This being so, he was relaxed and at peace with the world. Until…

  The telephone called to him.

  He pressed the black, antennaed bug to his ear. “Hello.”

  Though the fidelity of the connection was excellent, the gender of the caller was uncertain. “Am I addressing a Mr. Charles Moon?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “This is Bertram Eustace Cassidy.” There was an expectant pause, as if the name was expected to carry some weight. “I am calling on behalf of my aunt, Miss Jane Cassidy.”

  Cassidy. Sure—those people whose museum had been burgled. Those wealthy people. The sort who—after they paid their bills—still had piles of money left over. “Mr. Cassidy, what can I do for you?”

  The caller’s tone was mildly doubtful, as if he might have dialed a wrong number. “Is this Mr. Charles Moon—the Indian policeman?”

  “This is Charlie Moon, the tribal investigator.” And all-around good fella.

  “Mr. Moon, my aunt would like to confer with you.”

  “Confer about what?”

  “It is my impression that Auntie Jane would prefer to tell you herself. Do you know where we are located?”

  “Sure.”

  “I suggest that we set up an appointment, here at our estate.”

  Estate? I can hear the cash register ringing. “How about tomorrow afternoon?”

  Bertram E. Cassidy replied, in the self-assured tone of a man accustomed to calling the shots, “This evening would be much better.”

  “I’ll be there in about an hour.”

  “Auntie Jane is somewhat finicky about appointments.” A pained hesitation. “Could you be somewhat more precise?”

  Moon calculated the miles between here and there, consulted Betty Lou’s digital dashboard clock, which was synchronized with WWV. “I will knock on your door at eight-fourteen.” He grinned. “And twelve seconds.”

  Bertram Eustace Cassidy did not bat an eyelash. “Eight-fourteen-twelve. That will be quite satisfactory.”

  Charlie Moon heard a click in his ear.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  BERTIE AND JANE

  Charlie Moon arrived at the perimeter of the Cassidy estate at two minutes past eight. Not wishing to be early, he parked the F-350 on the street. The grounds were shrouded in that tasteful silence which may be purchased by the reclusive rich. At the far end of the winding asphalt driveway, the white three-story mansion rose to imitate a mammoth tombstone. On the first floor, ten mullioned windows showed only hints of light leaking through folds of heavy draperies. He set his wristwatch to match the dashboard WWV clock.

  At 8:14 PM plus twelve seconds, the Ute rapped his knuckles against the double-door main entrance.

  The brass knob turned, the massive door swung
on oiled hinges to reveal an elfin presence. The man of the house wore a black velvet robe over crisply ironed polka-dot pajamas. His size-6 feet were nestled in wool-lined felt moccasins. The face, like the rest of him, was of a roundish, plumpish quality. The diminutive white man checked the Rolex on his wrist. “Dear me—you are twenty-one seconds late.”

  “I hate to be argumentative right off the bat,” the Ute said. “But I knocked on your door right on the dot. You better get your Oyster checked.”

  “As you say.” The eyes were blue and merry. “You are Mr. Charles Moon, I may safely presume.”

  “Last time I looked in the mirror, this was me.” The Ute removed his black Stetson. “And I’ll lay five bucks to six bits—you are Mr. Bertram Eustace Cassidy.”

  “I am the very same.” He stepped aside, indicated with a polite gesture that the Ute should enter. “But please call me Bertie.”

  Moon looked doubtful. “I don’t know if I should—does that mean you get to call me Charlie?”

  “It would seem equitable.”

  “Then I’ll have to go along with it.”

  Bertie extended a pale hand that was light and lifeless in Moon’s big paw.

  The handshake was terminated by a shrieking call from down a dark hallway: “Bertie—is it Mr. Moon?”

  “No, Auntie—it is my friend Charlie.”

  “What on earth are you babbling about?”

  “Charlie Moon, my old chum. He is entirely here and accounted for.” He lowered his voice to a whisper: “And waiting anxiously to be summoned into your august presence.”

  “Then bring him to me!”

  Bertie gave his guest a nod, padded down the hall.

  Moon followed.

  The pale woman, who looked to be somewhere in her seventies, was seated stiffly in an overstuffed chair. Her gaunt form was hidden under a tasteful blue silk nightgown. Jane Cassidy had been listening to an opera; she switched off the CD player, turned to glare at the visitor.

  During the appraisal, Charlie Moon waited patiently.

  Finally, the woman arched a thin eyebrow at him. “My word, no one told me you were so tall.” As if Bertie should have informed her, she shot her nephew an accusing look, then continued in the injured tone of the grande dame who must deal with half-wits, “I am tired. It is very late to be having a guest.”

  The nephew gave the Ute an apologetic look. “Charlie preferred to come on the morrow, but I told him that you would prefer this evening, so—”

  “Shut up, Bertie.” She flicked the lever on a gold-plated antique cigar lighter, touched the flame to a skinny Turkish cigarette.

  Moon looked down at her. “Miss Cassidy, I was up before the sun. I’ve had a full day, and I’ve still got a long drive home. If this is an inconvenient time for you, I’d just as soon say good-bye and—”

  She pointed to a chair that matched her own. “Sit.”

  “No, thank you.” He stood, hat in hand.

  “Oh, very well then.” She tapped the cigarette ashes into a crystal ashtray. “You are no doubt aware that the Cassidy Museum has been burgled.”

  “I heard something about it.”

  “Bertie”—she pointed the cigarette at her nephew as if Moon might not know whom she was referring to—“informs me that you recently had a rather dramatic meeting with Ralph Briggs.”

  “Auntie is referring to the terrible incident where Ralph was wounded and you—”

  “Do not interrupt, Bertie.” She gave Charlie a stern look. “I understand that Mr. Briggs was attempting to gain your assistance in recovering the items stolen from our temporary display in the museum annex. And that while this discussion was in progress at The Compleate Antiquarian, someone shot and wounded Mr. Briggs.”

  “That’s what the newspaper reported.”

  “I never read a newspaper. Or watch the television.”

  Bertram Eustace Cassidy nodded. “That is quite true. Auntie depends entirely upon myself for news of the outside world. It is my duty to report events of any significance.”

  Jane Cassidy glared at the inoffensive little man. “Do be quiet, Bertie.”

  “Yes, Auntie.”

  Again she turned her attention to the Indian. “Now tell me what Ralph Briggs had to say.”

  “No.”

  Her eyes grew large with outrage. “I beg your pardon?”

  Moon shook his head. “Begging won’t help.”

  “Now see here—”

  “It’s a matter of professional conduct, Miss Cassidy. What was said between me and Ralph Briggs stays between him and me.”

  “But surely, if it has to do with the burglary of my museum—”

  “Ma’am, that don’t matter. Now if that’s what you wanted to talk about, I might as well—”

  “Please sit down,” she said.

  “What was that?”

  She responded in a pleading tone that was patently false, “Please.”

  “Don’t mind if do.” Moon folded his long frame into an ugly chair, perched the dusty Stetson on his knee.

  Jane Cassidy tapped the long cigarette against the back of a heavily veined hand. “I am pleased to know that you have professional scruples.”

  Moon’s eye twinkled. “I am pleased to know that you are pleased.”

  Bertie snickered, was instantly impaled by a piercing glance from his aunt.

  She forced a smile that exposed a marked gap between her front teeth. The mirthless expression could have passed for a reaction to acute food poisoning. “At my instructions, Mr. Moon, my attorneys in Denver have conducted some research into your background. I am informed that while you primarily work for your tribe, you are also a licensed private investigator. I also understand that, on occasion, you will work for a non-Indian client.” She waved off his response with a flick of her wrist. “I require some expert help in recovering the precious objects that were stolen from the Cassidy collection. I naturally assumed that you would be interested in providing me with your services.”

  Charlie Moon thought about it for a full half second. “No.”

  “No?” She detested that word—it was so negative.

  “Not a chance.”

  Bertie fell into a fit of giggles.

  Jane clenched her teeth. “Shut up, you silly little oaf.”

  The nephew bit his lip in a valiant but mostly fruitless effort to stifle himself. He imagined what it would be like to have red-hot ten-penny nails driven under his toenails while being chewed on by a rabid wolf and forced to listen to rap music at 130 decibels. This self-inflicted vision sobered him somewhat.

  Jane Cassidy raised her chin in a haughty gesture. “Why will you not work for me?”

  He tried to find a nice way to say it: “You and me—we would not get along.”

  She curled her lip. “Why—because I am rude and demanding?”

  And obnoxious. “Yes, ma’am.”

  A sly look crinkled her wrinkles. “I pay well.”

  Though momentarily tempted, Moon shook his head. “You could not afford me.”

  To demonstrate that she was hurt and insulted, the rich woman crumpled in her chair, dabbed a lace hankie at her eyes. “What a horribly offensive remark!”

  “Even so, it’s the truth.”

  She pitched the hankie aside. “Just out of curiosity, what is your hourly rate?”

  Moon decided to put a quick end to this farce. “Two hundred dollars.”

  Jane’s mouth popped open to display a number of well-maintained molars. “Astounding, I am absolutely flabbergasted.”

  This was good fun. “Plus expenses. And I get a thirty-minute coffee break every hour.”

  “This is simply outrageous.” She slapped a palm on her chest. “I may have a heart attack.”

  Moon grinned at the rich woman. “I warned you.”

  She grinned back. “I accept your terms.”

  If the dark-skinned man could have paled, he would have. “You do?”

  “Certainly. Keep a detailed acco
unt of your various nefarious activities on my behalf.” She gazed at the chandelier, where a tiny red spider was weaving a delicate web. “I will expect you to submit your bills on a weekly basis.”

  The man who had stepped into his own trap felt a stinging surge of heartburn. “What, exactly, do you want me to do?”

  “Do? What sort of question is that?” Jane banged her corpselike fist on a granite-topped tea table, toppling a small decanter of extremely expensive whiskey. “Do whatever it takes to recover my stolen property—every last piece of it!” She took a long draw on the Turkish cigarette, blew a wriggly string of smoke through the gap in her teeth. “I just hate it when the common riffraff comes creeping around the estate, dares to swipe my property.” She gave her nearest of kin a saccharine smile. “Someday, of course, everything I own will belong to my silly nephew—over my dead body, as it were.”

  Bertram made a little bow. “You are the very soul of charity, Auntie Jane.”

  Moon shifted in the uncomfortable chair. “What about insurance?”

  Jane’s eyes turned to blue ice. “What about it?”

  The tribal investigator struggled to come up with a response.

  “You probably think I burgled the museum for the insurance, is that it?”

  “Uh, well—no. It’s just one of the first things that comes up and—”

  She aimed the cigarette at Moon. “You detest rich people, don’t you?”

  “No, ma’am. As a matter of fact I try to put a little money in the bank every chance I get so that someday—”

  “For your information, Mr. Suspicious of His Betters, the collection was not insured. I saw no reason for it. We Cassidys have lived here for seven generations without any problem with common criminals. But recently I had become alarmed at the number of break-ins in the neighborhood. I instructed Bertie to contact several reputable brokers and secure bids for insuring not only the Cassidy collection, but every stick of furniture in my home. Within days of my decision, the burglar struck. Sadly, there was no coverage whatever. The theft represents a total loss.” She paused. “Do you have any other insinuating questions?”