The Shaman Laughs cm-2

by James D. Doss

  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.

  5

  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 Fo
rd 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."

  "That's good," Moon said. "Lots of folks would like to know who did it."

  He leaned over to whisper in Moon's ear. "It was not John Fitzgerald Kennedy who was shot in Dallas, but merely a look-alike. A stand-in. The president," he continued with a mad glint in his eye, "is alive today, living in Newfoundland. He operates a modest fleet of lobster boats, turns quite a tidy profit."

  Moon didn't smile. "Well, now. That news will sure turn some heads."

  "I have an excellent literary agent now, who resides in Dewy Rose, Arkansas. She will sell this manuscript to the highest bidder, and then it's Hollywood for me." He turned suddenly and waved a grimy hand at Parris. "You need not take notice of me. I am… the invisible man." Taxi swept away without further comment; he planted himself at a nearby table. He licked the tip of a stubby pencil and began to scribble marginal notes on his manuscript.

  "I may safely assume," Parris said, "that was not the superintendent of schools."

  "That was Taxi," Moon said. "Drifted in a couple of years ago. Nobody knows what his real name is. But he's harmless enough-just a writer."

  "He doesn't look overly prosperous," Parris said.

  "I doubt if he makes any money writing. We call him Taxi," The Ute said, "because he's also a taxidermist. Stuffs everything from squirrels to trophy elk. I guess he does pretty good during the hunting season."

  Parris, a policeman to his core, unconsciously surveyed the other occupants of the restaurant. Angel was spewing Mexican curses at the jammed cash register drawer. A matched pair of pot-bellied truck drivers sat in a corner booth, gloomily sipping canned beer. A trio of high school boys leaned on the antique juke box and leered at a slim girl who passed by outside. "Nancy says nothing much is happening, crime-wise."

  Moon thought about that for a few seconds. "It's been fairly quiet."

  "That's too bad. The new FBI agent, the one assigned to the Durango office, just showed up. It would be nice if you had something serious he could sink his teeth into." Like a ripe cow pie.

  "Well," Moon said, "a rancher stopped by this morning. Says he found his Hereford bull dead up in Canon del Es-piritu."

  Parris raised an eyebrow. "Is that police business?"

  "This time it is. Gorman Sweetwater says somebody killed the animal, then mutilated it. A few days ago, one of the tribe's buffalo came up missing."

  "Sounds like a story the newspapers will love, but I doubt it'll interest our Bureau boy."

  Moon frowned and shoved a forkful of beef between his lips. "This new S.A.-what's he like?"

  Parris didn't meet his friend's curious gaze. "I expect he's well qualified for his job." Angel appeared at his side and filled a cup with coffee.

  "Are you," Moon asked suspiciously, "holding out on your pardner?"

  Parris put on his best poker face. "He should be here any time now; you can judge for yourself."

  Moon pushed his fork under a mound of mashed potatoes. "Never met anyone from the Bureau I couldn't get along with. Now you take Stan Newman, George Whitmer. First-class lawmen. Sam Parker is all right, except he's kind of a snob about fishing with nothing but dry flies."

  The man had approached quietly. He flashed his creden-tials at Moon. "I'm Hoover, FBI." The Ute nodded as he read the I.D. "James E. Hoover?"

  There was a brief silence as the special agent anticipated the inevitable smart remark about his name. Taxi materialized at his side. "Excuse me, Mr. Hoover." He grabbed the pale man's hand and shook it. "I knew your father, knew him well. And I don't believe any of those absurd things they're saying about him."

  Hoover withdrew his hand and glared at the grubby intruder. "Who the hell are you?" He wiped his fingers on his shirt.

  "I," Taxi announced with injured dignity, "am a well-known writer. Estonian cookbooks. Thrilling exposes about the Martian bipeds who live in a great glass bubble under Lake Erie. Humorous greeting cards. And," he stretched to his full height, "the occasional erudite article for the New England Journal of Medicine. Less than eight years ago, I was a very successful cardiologist with a busy practice in Miami. Alas, I got crosswise of certain unsavory elements in the Cuban community and was forced to leave that profession behind. But enough about me! Where was I? Oh, yes-I was not always a writer, you know. In your father's day, I worked with Eliot Ness. I was-can you believe this-an undercover informer on the Capone organization." He held two fingers close together. "Frank Nitty and I, we were like that. But poor Eliot was somewhat overrated as a lawman." He paused and squinted at Hoover. "Do you know that John Dillinger is still alive?"

  Hoover blinked. "Dillinger?"

  "Indeed. He is now a prominent member of the president's inner circle." Taxi touched the tip of his nose with a grimy finger that protruded from the ragged glove. "Department of Justice. Check it out, laddie." With this, Taxi headed for the door, his tattered coat-tails flapping behind him.

  Hoover watched him go. "Evidently, the local asylums are overfull."

  "Taxi," the Ute said, "is harmless. Kind of a local character."

  "Y
ou are Sergeant Charles Moon, I presume?"

  "That's me. You must be the new G-man in Durango." The Ute eyed the man from the spotless gray Stetson hat down to the purplish hue of the expensive bull hide boots. "Well, now. I see from your outfit that you are a cowboy."

  Parris fought to choke back a grin.

  Hoover didn't recognize the line from the old song. "Whenever I move into a new area, I prefer to dress like the locals." Moon offered his hand to the special agent; there was a slight pause before Hoover accepted it. The Ute pumped the cold hand once, then let go. Hoover slid into the booth beside Parris; he sniffed at the mixture of greasy odors that hung over Angel's Diner like a permanent fog. "I'm running the Durango office while Newman's on the sick list." He waited for a response from Moon, but the Ute's face betrayed nothing. "I'll be having a close look at the police force operations on the Southern Ute and Ute Mountain reservations."

  Moon stared quizzically at the newcomer.

  Parris found his voice. "I'm sure you'll find that Roy Severo runs a good shop. All his people are first rate."

  Hoover, who pretended not to notice Parris, directed his remarks to Moon. "Maybe you could give me a rundown on recent criminal activity."

  "Don't usually have much serious crime on the reservation." The Ute's tone was mildly apologetic. "We had a bank robbery a few years back."

  "I heard about that," Hoover said. "Understand the suspects got away."

  Moon was about to point out that the bank was the jurisdiction of the Ignacio town police. But that would sound like an excuse. "I was at a trial in Denver that week," he said meekly.

  "You must have break-ins, burglaries."

  The Ute nodded. "Every now and again. Last March, a couple of hard cases from Flagstaff broke into the Texaco station. Cleaned out the register."