Charlie Moon held the speedometer at sixty; he glanced sideways at his friend. "You okay?"
"Why shouldn't I be?"
Moon's tone was gentle, understanding. "Guess you don't want to talk about it."
"About what?" Parris snapped.
"Pickin' a fight with a guy half your size." He chuckled. "Guess I'd be embarrassed too."
Parris glared at the Ute. "Nobody likes a smart-ass, Charlie." He rolled the Blazer window down. The sky over the reservation was an infinite vault of perfect blackness, sprayed by a random array of blinking diamonds. The moon was still an hour below the horizon, but a coyote, eager for the appearance of the silver orb, yipped hopefully from the crest of a low ridge.
The Ute smiled at his reflection in the windshield. This
matukach hard case had a fair dose of grit. Moon lifted his foot off the accelerator when he saw the large brick house on a knoll well off the highway. "Nightbird place is up there on the right. You think we should stop and tell Emily, or wait until the Bureau checks his fingerprints?"
Parris considered the house with a mixture of sadness and apprehension. The porch lights were on; the faithful wife was waiting for her husband's return. Not realizing that she was no longer a wife, but a widow. "You have any doubt the corpse is Mr. Nightbird?"
Moon tried to blot out the picture in his mind. "It's him." What was left of him.
"It's your territory, so it's your call, but I'd let her know right away."
"Suits me, pardner. You want to come in?" Emily had taken a shine to this matukach; it might make the job easier.
"Sure," Parris said. No cop wanted to break the grim news to a brand new widow without backup.
Moon tapped his knuckles gently on the door, then stepped backward as if to distance himself from the despair to come.
Parris shivered and jammed his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "Don't think she heard you."
Moon tapped again, even more lightly.
There was a muffled sound of footsteps. Emily cracked the door and looked up at Charlie Moon; his form towered above her. She pulled the lace collar of her pink satin nightgown close to her throat and glanced at Scott Parris, who removed his hat. Neither man spoke; neither would meet her direct gaze. She knew.
Emily's hand trembled as she unhooked the brass security chain and swung the door wide. The woman started to speak, then covered her mouth with a jerky motion of her delicate fingers. She disappeared down a dark hall, her steps quick and decisive. Moon wiped his boots on the fiber mat, then followed the woman into her kitchen. Parris trailed behind, wishing he was far away. With Anne. What was Anne doing now?
Emily waved her hand nervously at the cushioned Early American chairs under her dining table. The policemen ignored the invitation; they stood awkwardly, trying to decide what to say. How to say it. Emily wheeled on them, frustrated to the edge of fury. "Sit!" she barked, "sit down, both of you."
Obediently, they sat.
She filled an enameled kettle with water and slammed it onto a burner. "It's about Arlo?" It was more a statement than a question.
Moon cleared his throat. "Yes, ma'am…"
"Don't 'ma'am' me, Charlie Moon. Makes me feel like an old woman. Is Arlo… is he…" She paused and put her hand over her mouth.
"Arlo's dead," Moon said flatly, "I'm sorry."
She was silent for some moments, then began to scurry around the kitchen. "I was about to have some tea. I'll make some for you fellows," she said. "Did he have an accident in his fancy car?"
"No," Moon said.
Emily placed three china cups on the ecru linen tablecloth and poured boiling water into the cup by Moon's clenched fist. "Well," she said as if they were exchanging ordinary gossip, "are you going to tell me?"
Parris watched Emily drop a tea bag into his cup. He was surprised to hear himself answering her question. "It was… homicide." Homicide. A fine word. It sounded much less brutal than "murder."
Emily finished her task, then sat down across the table from the policemen. Parris thought the tiny woman looked smaller than ever, as if she was in the process of shrinking. Ninety pounds, eighty pounds… soon there would be nothing but a sigh in the pink satin nightgown. She blinked at Parris. "You were there… you have seen… Arlo?"
He ducked his head, afraid to meet her eyes. "Yes."
"Scott," Moon said gently, "found the body."
She ignored Charlie Moon. "How was my husband killed?"
Parris put his hand over hers. "I'm sorry. I can't say anything about it."
Her eyes widened, her olive skin stretched tight over her skull. "But I'm his wife___" She gripped Parris's hand.
"Emily," Moon said softly, "it's standard procedure in a homicide. We can't reveal anything about how the victim was killed. It could complicate the investigation."
"Do you have anyone to stay with you?" Parris asked gently. Her hand felt cool on his… it was a comfort to him.
"If you need some company," Moon added, "I could ask Nancy Bey ai to come over…"
"No. I'll be all right." She put a trembling hand to her throat. "I'll call Daddy… he'll be here in twenty minutes."
12
The morning sky over the San Juans was a wild spray of pale pink, the anemic tint of almost ripe watermelon, but the policemen were unaware of this stunning sunrise. Parris braced himself against the dashboard as Moon bounced the squad car over the rutted gravel road. The Ute hadn't spoken since he picked Parris up at the Sky Ute Lodge; the matu-kach policeman tried to gulp a swallow of black coffee from a Styrofoam cup, but spilled it on his boots when Moon hit a deep pothole dead-center.
"Better stop and back up so you can try again," Parris said cheerfully. "You missed a bigger hole on the left side of the road. On a scale of ten, would have been worth… maybe eight points."
Moon muttered something that was unintelligible under the roar of the V-8 engine. He jammed his foot on the brake pedal and careened into- the dirt lane that led past Daisy Perika's trailer into the mouth of Canon del Espiritu. "I'll feel better when the sun gets high over the mountain," Moon said with a scowl. "Didn't sleep so good last night." He saw a light in the trailer. "Looks like Aunt Daisy's back. I'm gonna have a word with her." Parris understood that he wasn't invited. Moon climbed the porch, slapped his palm on the aluminum wall. Daisy opened the door immediately and Moon disappeared inside. He sat down at the kitchen table while his aunt poured warmed-over coffee into Gorman's bunny cup. "Tell me about Arlo Nightbird."
Daisy folded her arms and spoke through thin lips. "I don't have nothing to tell you about that jackass."
Moon tipped the sugar bowl over his coffee; the crystalline stream of sweetness disappeared into the surface of the dark liquid. "Arlo is dead." He watched her eyes-Daisy showed no sign of surprise. "I already know Arlo came up here to see you. But he never came home that evening. We found his car about a half mile down the gravel road, but his body was up in Spirit Canyon." Charlie Moon was torn; the police officer had a job to do, but the Ute nephew was afraid to hear what his elderly relative might have to say. "What do you figure happened?"
"I got nothing to tell you."Maybe later, her eyes said. "Drink your coffee."
"If you don't want to talk to me, that's fine," Moon said slowly, "but there's an FBI man up in the canyon who'll be by here any time to see you."
"He's already come by," the old woman said.
Moon felt his stomach churn. "What'd you tell that… I hope you didn't-"
"I didn't say nothing." Daisy's eyes twinkled. "I opened the door, but I made like I don't understand English. He even tried a few words in Spanish, sounded like 'compren-der Espanol?' but I just shook my head and blinked at him. I guess he thinks I only speak Ute."
"You," said Moon proudly, "ought to be ashamed of yourself."
When Moon returned to the Blazer, Parris wanted to ask whether the shaman had said anything about Arlo Nightbird, but he didn't.
The Ute cranked the engine to life. "She's
not talking," Moon said, "and there's no use pushing her." * * *
Hoover was supervising the transfer of the body into a BIA van when Moon pulled off the dirt lane. The bruise on the special agent's jaw was now a dirty mixture of yellow and purple. Hoover pointedly ignored the presence of the policemen until they were within spitting distance. "So," he muttered to himself, "Tom and Huckleberry have returned." He raised his voice so they could hear. "You two might as well make yourselves useful." He squinted up at Moon, who stood with his back to the sun. "I expect you could tell me something about who Arlo Nightbird was-what he did."
Moon rocked back and forth, his arms folded. He was certain that Hoover had already picked the brains of the Ute cops who stood by watching, but it would be necessary to go through the motions. "Arlo was the richest man on the Rez. Ran an insurance agency, big mover and shaker on the Economic Development Board. Was working with the Feds to turn this nice place," Moon swept his hand to indicate the canyon, "into some kind of nuclear waste dump. Meant big money for the Tribe."
Hoover turned his back on Moon. "What about his wife?"
"Emily," Moon said. "Well educated-couple of degrees from the university up in Boulder. Her Dad is Fidel Sombra; he runs a little farm north of Ignacio."
"The victim have any children?"
"No children." At least not by his wife.
"Enemies?"
"Well," Moon said slowly, "when they have his funeral, there'll be no trouble finding a place to park."
"Let's narrow it down a bit," Hoover said. "Was there anyone who'd kill him?"
Moon glanced wryly toward the plastic body bag in the BIA van. "Evidently."
The special agent glowered at the Ute policeman. "We haven't found his trousers, but we found his belt. There was a sheath for a knife. Must have had a five and a half or six-inch blade. We didn't find the knife."
"Maybe," Parris offered, "the guy who did him in took it with him."
"That would make the killer pretty stupid," Hoover said hopefully.
"Could be," Moon said thoughtfully. "Or maybe this one isn't much worried about getting caught." Maybe he should tell Hoover about Oswald Oakes's theory about Cain. Oswald would love to have a visit from the FBI, and an opportunity to demonstrate his knowledge about animal mutilations. But that could wait.
Hoover flipped the pages of his notebook. "I understand that one Mr. Gorman Sweetwater recently had a heated dispute with the victim." The special agent had made the comment casually. Too casually. Somebody was doing a lot of talking to this fed. Moon glanced at Sally Rainwater, who was leaning against the side of the BIA van, then at Daniel Bignight. "Local gossip, that's all." Moon said.
"From what I hear, this Sweetwater guy was all pissed off about an insurance scam that Nightbird wouldn't buy. Sweetwater reported that an insured bull had died of natural causes, wanted a quick insurance settlement." A cold smile twisted Hoover's mouth. "You remember the bull? Name was Big Ouray."
Moon's fingers were toying with the.357 magnum cartridges on his belt.
"Problem is," Hoover was getting up to speed, "the bull had been mutilated by unnatural means, so a natural death wasn't a legitimate claim. There were also some technicalities about how the insured animals were identified; the policy may not have covered the bull in question. When Mr. Nightbird refused to recommend payment on the bogus claim, this Sweetwater fellow, who probably killed his own bull to collect the insurance, threatens to castrate him! Now, Mr. Nightbird turns up extremely deceased in the same canyon where the bull was found, and Mr. Nightbird is also minus his family jewels and his ears, precisely like Sweet-water's bull. Ear for an ear, ball for a ball." Hoover paused to gloat. "Now, Officer Moon, would you say that Gorman Sweetwater was a prime suspect?"
Moon stared down at Hoover. He stared until Hoover blinked. "Well," the Ute policeman replied thoughtfully, "since you put it like that-no. Even if Gorman killed his bull for the insurance, it doesn't make any sense for him to mutilate the animal-that would only queer his insurance claim. Not only that, half the people in Ignacio hated Ario more than Gorman did. And the whole town knew about that castration threat Gorman made against Ario."
Hoover turned away and dismissed Moon with a wave. "Never mind. I shouldn't expect you to see what is so damned obvious. But"-looking doubtfully over his shoulder-"maybe you'll still be of some use. There's a weird old broad who lives near the canyon entrance___"
"That weird old lady," Moon said softly, "is my aunt Daisy."
"Figures," Hoover said, "I guess everyone around here is related to everyone else, like in the Ozarks." Hoover wanted to say that this could explain a lot, but his throbbing jaw was a painful reminder that a man must measure his words. "Since she doesn't speak English, I'll need a translator." He looked innocently at Moon. "I assume you speak a word or two of Ute."
"Sure as you're a waa-pi, G-man," an unseen Ute policeman muttered. Moon gave no sign that he had heard this insult. Daniel Bignight, who had picked up a few Ute words, turned his back. His frame shook with suppressed laughter.
Hoover flushed; he opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He had barely heard the remark and didn't dare ask for an explanation. He was certain that someone would provide one. He retreated toward the van and instructed the BIA driver to take the body away.
Parris was watching Hoover when he spoke softly to Moon. "What's this nonsense about your aunt only speaking Ute? She speaks better English than half of my relatives."
Charlie Moon grinned, but didn't reply.
"I'm beginning to wonder," Parris said, "whether this job's worth the pay."
Moon thought carefully about this. "The benefits," he observed thoughtfully, "are mostly spiritual."
Daisy opened the door while Hoover was knocking. She smiled and gestured that he should enter. He was followed by Moon and then by Parris, who nodded politely. The old woman was silent as she poured three cups of strong coffee and ladled out steaming posole into plastic bowls. She gestured again to indicate that the lawmen should sit at her kitchen table, then placed the coffee and posole in front of them. She muttered something in the Ute dialect to Charlie Moon, then sat down and folded her arms in Buddha-like serenity.
Hoover tasted his coffee, grimaced at the brackish flavor, then leaned forward and smiled at Daisy. He spoke loudly, as if volume would help the communication. "I," he pointed at his chest, "represent the government in Washington. I am here to help the Ute."
Parris turned his head and coughed to stifle a snicker.
Charlie Moon spoke in Ute to his aunt: "This guy is manure in your path, so don't step on him."
Daisy nodded placidly, but didn't reply.
Hoover clasped his hands prayerfully. "When Mr. Night-bird came to the canyon-can you tell us anything about what happened?"
Moon began his translation, which was another pointed warning to his aunt.
Daisy interrupted and nodded vigorously. "Ah… Night-bird." She continued her comments in Ute.
Moon interpreted. "She says Arlo stopped by late in the afternoon, in his fancy car. Talked to her about the waste project for the canyon, then he left."
Hoover scowled at Moon. "That's all?"
Moon nodded. "That's all. He came, he left."
"Ask her if his car was damaged when he showed up."
Daisy listened to the query from Moon, then shook her head.
"Ask her-did she see anyone else, before or after he left?"
Moon muttered a few Ute syllables. Daisy answered; her monologue lasted almost three full minutes.
Hoover was leaning forward expectantly. "What did she say?"
"She said she don't remember too well."
"Shit, man, she gabbed that Indian pig latin for five minutes, she must have told you more than that!"
"She's kind of old and her memory's going," Moon explained apologetically. "It takes a lot of time for her to try to remember what happened on a particular day."
"Good grief," Hoover groaned, "why don't these old b
iddies learn to speak enough English for simple communications with the civilized world?" Unaware of the slight scowl on Daisy's face, the special agent stirred a spoonful of the posole and inspected the greasy brew with a worried expression. "This looks like hominy. I don't care much for hominy. Gives me gas. And what's this stuff floating around in this muck?" He scowled and muttered, "Hmfff. Probably dog meat."
"Dammit," Parris snapped, "watch your mouth!"
Hoover regarded Parris coldly. "What the hell for? The old woman doesn't understand English." He turned to the Ute policeman with a pained expression. "But if I've offended Officer Moon's delicate ethnic sensibilities, please accept my abject apologies." He affected a slight bow toward Moon.
The Ute policeman grinned. "Oh, no need to apologize. My aunt's getting kind of old and simple-minded." Daisy remained poker-faced. "No telling what kind of meat she put in the pot." The Ute sniffed at his bowl. "Might be prairie dog. No," he sniffed, then tasted a morsel, "don't think so, tastes kind of whangy, more like… ummm… porcupine." He winced as Daisy kicked his shin under the table.
Moon and Parris were finishing their posole when Hoover pointed at the door and shouted at Daisy. "Good-bye." He saluted her in military fashion. "The president in Washington thanks you!" Hoover paused by the door when he noticed a copy of the Southern Ute Drum on a small chest of drawers. Daisy Perika's name was on the newspaper mailing label. "What's this doing here… if she doesn't understand English?"
"It's the pictures," Moon said, "she likes to see pictures of her friends."
Hoover grunted; he frowned suspiciously at the silent woman before he left the trailer home.
Daisy watched Hoover hurry back to his Jeep; she punched Moon in the ribs. "Old and simple-minded, am I?"
"Sorry, Auntie. Just old, I guess."
Parris cleared his throat. "Mrs. Perika… I guess we'll be going. Unless there's anything you want to tell us." He was certain that this old woman knew something about Nightbird's murder. Maybe she even knew who had drawn the blade across… but the image was an obscenity.
The shaman's eyes went flat; the seconds ticked away while Moon waited patiently. It seemed as if Daisy might remain mute, but she turned to Scott Parris. "Most of the matukach think our old ways are foolishness. Some of my own people," she glanced accusingly at Charlie Moon, "say the pitukupf is just an old campfire story to frighten naughty children. But you"-she pointed at Parris's chest-"… you know different."
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