The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries)

by James D. Doss

  Julio pulled the Blazer off the rough road and shifted into low gear as he looked for a suitable place to conceal himself, to rest for a few hours. It would be best to wait until the moon was up, then drive without lights. He made his way with great care between stunted cedars and rough outcroppings of basalt until he found a small overhang of sandstone. The sandstone shaded a gentle slope that led to one of many dry washes that drained the Gallinas Mountains when the infrequent rains came. He got out, stretched his back, and sighed with contentment. The air felt crisp, clean, odorless. Julio Pacheco had never known boredom; life was a continuous, exciting adventure!

  The Mexican made a long, circular hike that encompassed his campsite. Pausing frequently to listen, he could see no lights, hear no engines or voices or any unnatural sound. In this uninhabited wasteland, there was only the infrequent yip-yip of a distant coyote and an occasional short hoot from a speckled owl secreted in one of the junipers. Back at his makeshift camp, he curled up in the rear seat of the Blazer, intending to sleep until the moon rose over Ladrones peak.

  Presently, Julio dreamed of his mother, and also of his nieces, and Uncle Fortunata. They were seated on wooden pews in the gray stone church in Tuxtepec that his mother attended faithfully three times every week and more often during holy feasts. He stood at the doors and looked in; there was a black coffin by the altar rail. A young priest was sprinkling holy water over the coffin as he read from a small white book. Pacheco walked slowly up the aisle between the mourners, but they did not notice his appearance among them. As the dreamer approached the coffin, the priest flung a vial of holy water toward the unwelcome guest. The water erupted from its silver container and was transformed into a raging, splashing torrent that washed the terrified Pacheco from the church. He could hear the priest’s voice as he was swept away: “Repent Julio. The saints can no longer hear you. They weep for your soul. Repent!” Pacheco could feel himself drowning and was grateful to return to consciousness. Small beads of sweat dotted his forehead; seconds ticked by before he could remember where he was. He blinked at the eastern sky; the moon was at least four disks high. He cursed himself for his self-indulgence in sleeping so long; he should have been moving south as soon as the moon appeared on the horizon. The hands on the luminescent dial of the Apache policeman’s watch indicated that it was already well past midnight.

  Julio grunted with stiffness, rose to his feet, and stretched luxuriously. After urinating on the tire of the Blazer, he tore the paper open on a Mounds and popped one of the chocolate-covered bars into his mouth. He flicked half the wrapper aside and closed his eyes as he leaned against the Blazer and chewed slowly on the sweet grated coconut. Life was truly wonderful. How terrible it would be to cease living! What did the priest in the dream know? The saints were surely watching over him, and it was better to have one reliable saint for a friend than a hundred fickle priests.

  His eyes were still closed when the pair of red laser beams pierced the night like silent arrows of blood. The moving beams first reflected uncertainly off the Blazer window and then found their intended target. They danced on Pacheco’s broad chest like playful fireflies, but he was unaware of their presence. It was the man’s voice, booming out of the pitch-darkness, that startled him.

  “FBI. You’re under arrest! Hands on your head. Do it now!”

  Pacheco dropped the candy bar and instinctively reached for the revolver stuffed under his belt. His hand had barely touched the grips when he felt a heavy blow to his shoulder, then heard a great explosion. Within seconds, two men in camouflage fatigues were standing over his body, while a third man in a Forest Service uniform was applying a pressure bandage to the wound. The bandage was, in the bright light of their electric lantern, rapidly turning from white to bright crimson.

  The special agent from the Albuquerque FBI office dropped to one knee for a closer look. He turned to grin at the Apache policeman, who aimed a revolver at Pacheco’s head. “Say, MacPherson, this fellow’s wearing a ’Pache shield and a jacket just like the one you lost. You sure he’s not one of your fellow officers?”

  The Apache did not smile at the jibe; he cocked the revolver and prayed silently that Pacheco would give him an excuse. “Why don’t you fellows go get the stretcher from the copter. I’ll keep an eye on him.” An involuntary twitch; a muscle spasm. Any little excuse.

  The forest ranger left to get the stretcher. The FBI agent got to his feet and kicked at the candy wrapper. “I’ve learned to put up with gunrunners, kidnappers, and bank robbers, but one thing I simply can’t abide,” he drawled, “is a damned litterbug.”

  * * *

  A uniformed policeman examined Parris’s ID, then opened the door without a word. A nurse was attending Pacheco. The Mexican, whose left shoulder was wrapped in bandages, waved with his right hand. “Hello, gringo federale.”

  “You know who I am?”

  Julio smiled weakly under the thick mustache that framed his faultless teeth. “Seen you around town a couple of times. You’re the Chicago cop who took over that hick police force in Granite Creek.”

  Parris pointed at the bandages. “Hear you caught one. You seem to be in pretty fair shape, considering you’ve been shot.”

  Pacheco coughed and grimaced with pain. “I’ll get along. You come to take me back?”

  “I’ve filed the papers for your extradition to Colorado. If you heal fast, you’ll be ready to travel in a few days.”

  Pacheco was doing his best to exude machismo. “Hey, man, it’s no big deal. Back in ’seventy-six, I was knifed by my second cousin; we got drunk and fought over a Cuban whore in a little dirt-floor bar in Ascenscíon. Cousin Paco, now he’s a first-class knife artist; laid my belly open from crotch to ribs. Paco felt real bad when he got sober; cried like a baby, swore he’d kill himself if I died. But I lived, because the saints, they watch over me. You want to see the old scars on my belly?”

  Parris placed a miniature tape recorder on the bedside table and pressed the RECORD button. He grinned at the scrappy Mexican. “Sounds like a rare treat, but I’ll pass.” He removed a card from his wallet and read the standard Miranda statement. “You understand your rights? If you can’t afford a lawyer, the Court will…”

  “I don’t want no damn abogado, man. They just take your money and wave good-bye. Could you pass that pitcher of water over here? My mouth is full of cotton.”

  Parris poured the ice water into a plastic cup and waited while the Mexican drank deeply. “You speak pretty good English. Been in this country long?”

  “I spent more time with you Yanquís than in my own country. Peso’s no damn good for anything, but a man can buy what he needs with U.S. dollars. Worked a lot in hotels; had to learn good English to hold a job.”

  “Tell me about the rancher. The one you left up near Lone Pine.”

  Pacheco leaned back on his pillow and breathed deeply. “Mean old goat; I bet he’s pissed. Tell that old man I’m sorry about his dog, but the stinkin’ little mutt tried to bite me.” He closed his eyes and shuddered. “I hate dogs.”

  “The rancher isn’t worried about his dog. He’s dead.”

  Before he responded, the Mexican searched Parris’s face, as if this might be some kind of trick. When he decided it was true, he avoided the policeman’s eyes. “I didn’t mean for that to happen; just tapped him a little. Damned contrary old booger, why’d he have to…” Pacheco clasped a hand over his eyes. He was angry at his victim for having the poor taste to die after being “tapped.” He gulped down another swallow of ice water and slammed the cup onto the table that extended over his bed. “What’s the charge?”

  “Murder one, most likely, considering you stole his truck. Killed your victim during the commission of a felony. Smart lawyer might make a deal for manslaughter, but I wouldn’t make book on it. You might as well tell me everything…”

  Pacheco grimaced again as the pain flashed like summer lightning from his shoulder to his groin. “What else you got on your mind?”
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br />   This was the crucial moment. Parris cleared his throat and glanced at the recorder to verify that the tape was turning. Caution was the watchword. One wrong step and the suspect would clam up. “What can you tell me about Priscilla Song?”

  The nurse returned and used a plastic hypodermic to inject a clear fluid into Pacheco’s IV. Parris guessed this would be a narcotic to cut the sharp edges off the pain. Almost immediately, the Mexican smiled dreamily. “Priscilla. Good-lookin’ little chica.”

  “Miss Song was a graduate student at RMP. You were employed there as a repairman?”

  “Facilities engineer, man. I fixed whatever got broke. Pay was not too good, but I managed to get by.”

  “Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened that night.” The Mexican licked his lips but didn’t answer. No, Parris thought, he’s not going to admit to it. He’s dreaming up some cock-and-bull story. It would be so much easier with a confession.

  Pacheco finally spoke. “My head hurts. I feel a case of lockjaw comin’ on.”

  Parris removed a manila folder from his briefcase. He emptied its contents on Pacheco’s bed. There were a half dozen color prints, enlarged to eight-by-tens. He held a print up for Pacheco’s inspection. It was a close-up of Priscilla Song’s twisted, bloody face. The Phillips screwdriver was still in place. Pacheco grimaced and looked away. The nurse, who had remained silent during the entire interview, glanced at the photograph and put her hand over her mouth. She hurried into the adjoining bathroom and vomited into the toilet.

  Pacheco had lost all of his bluster. “Why do I have to look at that garbage, man? Can’t you see I’m sick?”

  Parris felt his temple throbbing. “Mr. Pacheco, why did you assault this young woman?”

  “I told you, I got nothing to say! You got wax in your ears, you don’t hear so good?”

  “Tell me about the drug trade on campus. I’d like to hear about your part in it.”

  Pacheco regarded his accuser in disbelief. He smiled weakly. “I get it, man. You got to be crazy. I don’t know nothin’ about no drugs. Go away and let me rest. Nurse! Where the hell is the nurse?” The nurse, her face drawn and pale, emerged from the bathroom.

  Parris gripped the rail at the foot of the hospital bed; his knuckles turned white. “Your prints are on the murder weapon. What do you think about—”

  “I think,” Pacheco snarled, “I got nothing more to say to you. You want to put me in a cage, and I ain’t gonna help you. So buzz off.” Pacheco grinned maliciously and lifted his index finger. The nurse glanced at Parris with an expression of sympathy.

  Parris switched the recorder off. “You,” he said, “are one sorry excuse for a man.”

  Pacheco opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. In all his life, he had never been so wounded by an insult.

  * * *

  It was past midnight. Parris tossed and turned in the king-size motel bed; sleep was an elusive goal. Anne Foster’s suspicions about Professor Waldo Thomson were an annoyance that wouldn’t go away. Leggett had done some discreet checking. As Anne had claimed, Thomson did spend more than his university salary. The physicist drove a Porsche 930 turbo slant-nose and owned a two-bedroom condo at Snowmass. Moreover, he made frequent trips to Colombia and Peru, even during the rainy season. Anne’s hunch could be right; there might be a connection to the illegal drug business. More than likely, though, it was all innocent. Thomson probably had an inheritance, or a good nose for the stock market. Maybe the professor liked the rainy season in the South American jungles.

  Finally, Parris slipped into the dark, uncharted abyss of his unconscious. As he dreamed, his eyes darted back and forth under his lids as if he was surveying a grand scene in the imaginary worlds of his mind.

  It was a fine autumn day as he paddled the featherlight birch-bark canoe along the mirrored surface of a deep river. Honey-colored maples lined the bank like columns of tireless sentries. Fallen maple leaves drifted along with him as he moved effortlessly through the crystalline waters. The girl with the dark hair appeared from nowhere, a slim, pretty figure in a yellow dress. She walked through the knee-deep water and tossed her long hair over her shoulder with a dainty hand. The girl was pure and unearthly and lovely. The forest maiden with a black patch over one eye was Priscilla Song.

  The young woman approached the canoe and extended both hands palms upward. Her lips moved, but the words were lost with a gust of wind that troubled the surface of the water. Her face was full of appeal as she spoke again, but he could not hear. She seemed to sense the futility of this attempt to divulge her secret to a man who was deaf.

  Parris tried to speak, but the words came out with difficulty; the wooden paddle was transmuted to lead and slipped from his hands into the dark water. “What? What did you say?” He cupped a hand over his ear. “Please … I can’t hear.…” She removed a heavy oversized ring from her thumb and offered it to the man in the canoe. Parris reached for the ring, but her hand was barely out of his grasp. The young woman’s face was a picture of frustration.

  She held her arms over her head; like the most graceful of ballerinas, she began to turn effortlessly in the water, rotating like a corkscrew. A small whirlpool formed around her slender form as she sank out of sight amidst a foam of tiny bubbles. When she had disappeared into its depths, the surface of the water became still, a faultless mirror to the azure reflection of the sky.

  Parris lurched off the pillow as if propelled by an electric shock. This dream, like all his dreams, was useless nonsense. Flickering shadows to disturb a man’s sleep. Groaning, the policeman vainly attempted to reshape the distorted pillow. Sleep would not come easily after the ghostly figure’s enigmatic visit. It was going to be a long, tedious night without rest. He dropped his head onto the pillow and, to entice sleep, contemplated fine seasons of years that had gone, days of soft breezes and warm sunshine.

  A refrain from an old hymn drifted through his mind, mixing with his fantasies. “Precious memories … how they linger” … a log cabin in the deep forest … “how they satisfy” … a pristine rippling trout stream splashing over mossy boulders … “satisfy my soul” … a light breeze embracing the quaking aspens … Helen close by his side, whispering her warm breath in his ear. Or was it Anne? Or—he shivered in his half sleep—was it the girl in the yellow dress, the girl who wore a black patch over the hollow socket where an eye had once funneled light into her soul?

  TWELVE

  The sinuous road, picturesquely shaded with stately Douglas fir and conical blue spruce, was a zigzag of deep ruts and muddy pools; the heavy automobile responded with creaking groans as Parris dropped the gearshift into the L slot and eased his way along what he hoped would be the path of least damage to the disks between his vertebrae.

  After a half mile that took ten minutes to navigate, the road ended abruptly in a sparse stand of luxuriant blue spruce and quivering aspen, flanked on the west by a dozen lofty ponderosa. Parris spotted his objective, or at least the domicile of his objective, illuminated by shafts of late-afternoon sunlight piercing branches of the tall pines. The old man’s home was nestled at the northern edge of a small meadow of Johnson grass decorated with purple aster and Indian paintbrush. The Lilliputian cabin, dwarfed by its setting, was constructed of rough-hewn pine logs and topped off by a chimney of odd-sized and irregular-shaped stones. Wood smoke curled from the stone chimney and hung over the peaked shingle roof like a misty umbrella. A matched pair of wooden whiskey barrels had been placed at the corners of the cabin to catch water that spilled from the split-log gutters. There was no telephone line to connect the lone inhabitant with the outside world, nor was there any electricity available at this remote location.

  Parris counted to thirty before he switched the ignition off; it would give the old recluse a chance to realize that he had company. “He has,” Anne Foster had warned darkly, “been known to take a potshot at intruders. Keeps an old twelve-gauge to put cottontails in his stew pot. Best be careful up there.” Anne’s info
rmation on the hermit wasn’t limited to his hunting practices. Potter-Evans, she confided, had left England in 1954 after a terrible scandal involving a woman. A married woman. Her husband, more than twenty years her senior, was a Member of Parliament. The brilliant young mathematician had emigrated and immediately landed a job at Cornell. He had been refused tenure after a brief affair with an undergraduate. Potter-Evans’s professional life had gradually slid downhill after this episode. There had been a tedious series of undistinguished posts at backwater colleges, finally relieved by a penurious retirement and welcome oblivion in the San Juans.

  The policeman had never met an honest-to-goodness hermit, and thought it best not to startle an unpredictable old eccentric who might be fingering the trigger of an equally unpredictable shotgun. Parris approached the front door warily, keeping his hands in full view. He called out, “Hello in the cabin. Anyone home?” His voice echoed off a basalt bluff behind the ponderosa. A light breeze shifted the burlap curtains that hung inside two small windows on each side of the door, but his answer was silence. He raised his hand to knock when he heard the voice that materialized from behind.

  “No need to pound on my door; you’ll get no answer.”

  He turned to see the man who had spoken with more than a trace of a British accent. The angular figure, somewhat over six feet in height, held a pair of cottontail rabbits by the ears in one hand. The other hand gripped a well-oiled double-barreled shotgun, carelessly pointed toward the policeman’s knees. Leathery skin was stretched over his face as if it had gotten wet and shrunk on his skull; a soft crown of silver hair framed his head like a halo. He gave the appearance of being tired from a long walk in the forest, but not of being weak. The man broke the shotgun down and ejected a pair of spent cartridges. Parris could smell the faint odor of burned powder. It was an oddly pleasant smell, here in the deep forest, where a shotgun was more than a mere ornament to hang over the mantelpiece.