The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries)

by James D. Doss

  Miss you,

  Anne

  The policeman ripped the note off the door and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Suddenly, he didn’t feel so great. He had gotten used to the notion of Anne, lovely Anne, being there for him. Now, there would be plenty of travel for her. Endless television interviews for the reporter who exposed the “Coed Murderer.” Probably, a book contract. There would be job offers from big-name newspapers. Maybe television. She certainly had the looks and personality. And then, she’d be gone. Gone. He detested that word. Helen was gone. Priscilla was gone. Now, Anne would be gone. At least Helen had departed without his assistance; he had helped Anne along the way toward her inevitable departure. If he had kept Anne at arm’s length during the investigation, she might still be writing columns on sewer bonds and animal-rights issues. The policeman buttoned his raincoat and wished he had worn a sweater under it. Parris felt cold. And middle-aged. And alone.

  * * *

  The madman vomited into the toilet. He tried to vomit once more. His chest heaved, but his stomach was empty. He pushed himself to his feet and flushed the toilet. He pressed a wet washcloth to his forehead and leaned against the wall while he waited for the nausea to depart, for his strength to return.

  The Voice had returned, and there was something more: the odor of rotting flesh. The physicist held the washcloth over his nose, hoping the presence would not be offended. The Voice spoke to him about those who had ruined his plans. He gradually became furious as he considered the injustice of their meddling. “I despise them,” he said, “but what can I do?”

  The Voice told him.

  * * *

  Parris pressed the buzzer and waited. The heavyset woman who opened the door frowned at the sight of the chief of police on her front porch. “Is anything wrong?”

  He tipped his felt hat. “No … sorry to show up unannounced. Just took the chance you’d be here. Can we talk?”

  Kristin Waters opened the door and pointed at a fiber mat, where Parris dutifully wiped his wet boots. She took his raincoat and draped it over the back of a chair, then instructed him to sit. He did, with his back straight, his hands folded in his lap. She raised her eyebrows to signal that he could begin.

  He opened his pocket-sized notebook. “Just a few questions. Tying up loose ends, that sort of thing. You understand.”

  “Yes. Of course I do. I understand that you must ask questions, then write the answers in your little book.” She looked at the heavy man’s watch on her wrist, a hint that she didn’t have a lot of time to spare.

  “On the day of the murder, Julio Pacheco was in the laboratory with Priscilla Song.”

  She leaned forward and spoke softly, as if someone might overhear. “Mr. Pacheco was called in to look for a gas leak. Gas can be very dangerous, you know.”

  “Yeah. Did Pacheco find the leak?”

  Her blank expression was impossible to read. “Don’t know. Didn’t see him after he made his checks. You want me to be sure before I answer, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I understand you summoned Pacheco.”

  “Most certainly. Asked him to drop everything and get right over. If I could have smelled it myself, I’d have ordered an evacuation of the building.”

  “Then you didn’t smell the gas? Who asked you to call Pacheco?” Parris was sure he knew what the answer would be.

  She told him.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Claude Potter-Evans had spent the morning gathering dead wood and dry pinecones from the deep forest. He had dumped a basket of cones, which he would use as fire starters and Christmas decorations, into a rough wooden box by the stone fireplace. The old man had a light lunch of dark bread, a boiled egg, and canned peaches. He decided to forgo his after-lunch nap and get right into the pleasurable task of sawing the wood into twenty-six-inch lengths to fit the fireplace. The Englishman was deeply involved in this work when he heard the vehicle approach. He was pleased to hear the sound. It would be the woman who delivered the mail. Most of the stuff, which was junk or bills, she left at his handmade mailbox, down where the gravel road petered off into a weed-choked dirt lane. When there was something special, like his Social Security check or a package from one of the mail-order houses, she drove her four-wheel-drive pickup all the way to his cabin. She was somewhat thin for his taste, but nevertheless an attractive woman whose innocent smile and lithe figure hinted of rare delights. There were, truth to be told, few women young or old whose innocent smiles and figures (lithe or otherwise) did not suggest such fantasies to Potter-Evans. Like the aged Moses, his “vital forces had not departed.” For months, the old recluse had connived various means to delay the postal maiden’s departure; he greatly coveted the pleasure of even the briefest of visits from this fair lass. Like others of her tireless profession, she usually did not tarry long. Nevertheless, he was the soul of patience, and an incurable optimist about his appeal to the fairer sex. She liked his stories, and would occasionally clasp her pale hand over her lips and giggle at his obscure jokes. Today, he decided, he would tell her about the time he had hunted buffalo in Uganda.

  He was rehearsing his performance, entertaining fantasies about how she might accept an invitation to tea, when he saw the pickup. The color was wrong, and this truck was quite new compared to the postal maiden’s wheezing vehicle. His brow furrowed in puzzlement. Had she purchased a new pickup? Potter-Evans’s mind, normally as agile as the young prong-horn’s limbs, was momentarily fastened onto one of the female objects of his passion. The truck was within yards, close enough for him to recognize the driver, when he realized that he had been careless. Unforgivably careless. His mind instantly discarded the young woman who delivered the mail. Where was the shotgun? Leaning against the woodpile. Too far away? Yes. Run? The only chance.

  He was backing into the brush when he saw the hand with the pistol extended from the open window of the pickup. He simultaneously saw the flash, heard the explosion, and felt a searing pain in his abdomen. He had no sense of falling; it was as if the damp earth had reared up to whack the breath from his lungs. He looked up and was partially blinded by the sun.

  Now the intruder with the pistol was speaking to him. “You’re only the first.”

  The bleeding man heard every word, but his thoughts were not concerned with his assailant, who now seemed quite irrelevant. Potter-Evans’s mind bounced from one favorite subject to another. Madeline, the librarian; her soft red lips, the pungent kerosene aroma of her cheap perfume. His mind jumped again. He could see Winnie clearly; the prime minister was dabbing a small brush at an oil painting of a red brick wall in the garden of his country home; long vines of yellow roses adorned the edifice. The grand old statesman turned and motioned for Potter-Evans to approach. He could not; he was back on the ground in America; he closed his eyes to block out the sun. Then again, back to England. Nineteen and forty-three? He was standing by the gate to his father’s farm in Yorkshire. Potter-Evans could see the old house, constructed of rough-hewn gray stones; he was certain that he could smell the aroma of fresh bread and steaming black tea. Then, back again, on the Colorado earth, staring into the sun. The visitor kept talking, shrieking like a spoiled child about the others who would die for their meddling. Then the assailant fired another shot, this one directly into his chest. Potter-Evans felt the slug slam into his ribs, but there was not as much pain as had accompanied his first wound. He reasoned that he must be drifting away, losing the ability to feel pain. He heard the pickup door slam. The sound of the engine slowly receded into the distance. Cold blackness surrounded him, blocking the pain. The darkness was welcome. He felt himself, like the sound of the vehicle, gradually receding into the distance … leaving his body shell behind.

  * * *

  Parris hoped Potter-Evans had sorted out Priscilla’s mysterious message. Piggy, as usual, had provided a fuzzy report. The old hermit had, according to Slocum, said something about women and booze, and a curse on the chief’s grandchildren! Parris, who was childless, was unc
oncerned.

  Anne was sitting close to him, her head resting lightly against his shoulder, her delicate fingers on his right arm. It made shifting gears inconvenient, but Parris had no complaint. He should have been watching the turns in the gravel road, but he preferred to turn his head and sniff the fragrance of her red hair. Honeysuckle? Was the scent artificial, or did she produce this wondrous perfume from her pores? He was acting the fool over this most remarkable woman. He knew this and did not care.

  She had gradually drifted down from her high. He had no intention of offering any negative comment about her article. Never mind that her target could be a calculating killer who might make an attempt (or his second attempt?) on Anne’s life. Thomson would be far away now. Anne, on the other hand, was here. Close to him. She hadn’t said a word about another job, and he had no intention of broaching that subject. Even if she did move to another state, perhaps he would follow her. If she would let him. It shouldn’t be all that hard to find another job on another small-town police force.

  “How,” Anne asked, “is Sergeant Knox doing?”

  “Wound was pretty bad; they had to take his leg off,” Parris said. “Looks like he’ll pull through.”

  “I heard he had some kind of cancer.”

  “Yeah,” Parris said, “it was on his leg.”

  “You don’t mean…”

  “That’s right”—Parris grinned—“the one they amputated. Expect he’ll come hobbling in on a wooden peg in a few months, demanding to go out on patrol.”

  “What about Julio Pacheco?”

  Parris didn’t answer immediately. “Vanished. We’re still watching the area where the hounds lost his trail, but haven’t turned up a trace. It’s like he sprouted wings and flew away.”

  The pickup truck appeared as he turned a narrow curve; Parris jerked the steering wheel to avoid a head-on collision. The sun was in his face; he barely caught a glimpse of the driver who was in such a hurry. “Crazy road hog! Ought to turn around, pull him over.”

  “Don’t always play the policeman,” Anne said. “It wasn’t on purpose.”

  When they left the gravel section, the lane became bumpy. Anne lifted her head from his shoulder and blinked her long lashes apprehensively at the shadows gathered under the pines. It was a dark forest with mossy boulders, the sort of place where Grimms’ monsters fed on innocent children. “Are we there yet?”

  This sometimes cynical woman, now at the top of her professional career, had an almost childlike quality. He leaned over to kiss her ear and received a happy smile in return. “Almost. He’ll have a fire on a cold day like this; we should see the smoke from his chimney when we top this ridge.”

  “Do you think he’s already seen the papers?” she asked. “I’d like to have the pleasure of showing him the front-page spread myself.”

  “Doubt it. He only walks into town about once a week. Then, he reads the paper at the library. He has a sweetheart there.”

  “I heard. Madeline. I think that’s kind of icky, don’t you? An old man like that. She’s young enough to be his daughter.”

  Parris reminded himself that he lived in a small town. There were no secrets. At least not for long. He wondered what the gossips were saying about the chief of police and the lovely journalist who appeared destined for the big time.

  There was only a hint of gray smoke drifting lazily from the chimney, as if the fire was almost out. Parris had an uneasy feeling as he set the emergency brake. He noticed the handsaw on the woodpile, then spotted the shotgun. The old man might be absentminded, but he would never leave his treasured shotgun outside. Was Potter-Evans ill?

  There were tire tracks in the lane. He remembered the pickup that had almost forced him off the road. He heard the sound, something between a whimper and a groan.

  Parris followed the direction of the sound, then he heard a weak cough. The old man was flat on his back. His threadbare checkered shirt was splattered with blood, still wet near his wounds, but dry and flaky at the edges. As he bent over Potter-Evans, the policeman heard Anne getting out of the squad car. Instinctively, he pressed one finger lightly on the old man’s neck. The carotid artery was pulsing weakly; he estimated the rate at no more than forty-five beats a minute. Blood pressure must be low; in spite of the sunlight in his face, Potter-Evans’s pupils were dilated.

  Anne appeared at his side. “Get his shirt off,” she snapped. “I’ll make some bandages.” She stepped out of her half-slip and ripped it into long, narrow strips, then leaned against a tree and pulled off her panty hose. Parris unbuttoned the old man’s shirt. There were two wounds. The small hole in the abdomen was bleeding slowly; the chest wound pulsated a mottled mixture of scarlet blood and transparent serum as Potter-Evans drew short, intermittent breaths. Anne pressed folded strips of her slip against the wounds; Parris lifted the man’s shoulders so she could apply a makeshift panty-hose bandage to hold the compression pads in place.

  This brought a gasp from the old Englishman. “Don’t move me, you silly twit! Can’t you see I’m…” He blinked at his visitors. “She looks like an angel, but who the hell are you?”

  “Scott Parris. You remember me. Now who did this, old fellow?”

  The wounded man glared through bleary eyes. “Parris. Oh yes, the constable. I’ve been abroad, you know. Had a session with the prime minister. He was in top form. We reminisced about the Great War; he painted a beautiful picture, roses and bricks, grass and sky. I painted a picture of Winnie.” He paused and reflected. “Didn’t realize I could paint, you know. Rather strange, wouldn’t you say?”

  Parris eased him back to his former position on the ground. Potter-Evans wheezed as blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. The chief spoke softly. “Now think carefully and tell me.… It’s very important.… Who did this?”

  Potter-Evans glanced at the makeshift bandages covering his wounds and then at Anne. He attempted to smile but grimaced with pain. “You’re the reporter, what?”

  She smiled gently and touched his forehead. This small gesture seemed to give him strength. “The bloody … drove the lorry right up, right on my own property, and then the nasty blighter shot me.” He strained to focus his eyes on Parris. “A man’s home is his castle, old stick. Isn’t that right, even here in the Colonies? Isn’t that the law? Oh, I say, I think you should transport me to hospital.”

  Parris was patient. Mustn’t make any suggestions; a dying man’s testimony was heavy evidence in a court of law, but not if he was delirious and merely responding to an overture from a zealous lawman. “Please, you old cuss. Give me a name.”

  Potter-Evans stared blankly. “Name? Never could remember a name … had a fine time with Winston. Only real prime minister in this century worth mentioning. Dear old Margaret kicked the Argies asses out of the Falklands, and Majors was a decent chap, but…”

  Anne bent over and whispered in his ear. “The person who shot you … was it someone you know?”

  He grinned. “My but you’re a pretty thing. Kiss an old man and I’ll tell you anything.”

  “You,” she responded, “are a naughty boy.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

  “It’s true,” he said. “You are an angel, it’s certain. The Angel of Death. And I am in Paradise!”

  She smiled and wiped his forehead with her handkerchief. “Remember your promise?”

  His eyes were wild. “The Allied invasion … that’s what you want, isn’t it? Holland, that’s where to look. Tell that little house-painting, Jew-hating pervert it’ll come across the dikes.” Potter-Evans appeared smug at this pronouncement.

  Parris gripped his shoulder and the old man winced at the pressure. “Tell us who shot you … loud enough for Anne to hear you.”

  Potter-Evans was slipping into a mild delirium. “Major Claude Potter-Evans, serial number four-seven … can’t remember.” The old man coughed up a spittle of scarlet fluid. “One more thing,” he offered more lucidly, “I’m merely the first one. That’s right. Yes. I’
m only the first.”

  Parris felt the Dread flexing its dark limbs in the pit of his stomach. “What do you mean?”

  Potter-Evans gripped Parris’s wrist with surprising strength. The old man closed his eyes as if in concentration. “Let me remember … exactly. Yes. Yes. ‘Now, I’ll kill the old Indian witch…’” Potter-Evans sighed and his voice became a harsh whisper. “Must rest a bit. Been rather a rum day, you know.” The old man’s eyes rolled upward.

  Anne’s face was a study in horror. She turned to fix a wide-eyed stare on Parris. “Oh my God. My article … I mentioned the Ute woman. Thomson must have read it … and…” She clasped a hand over her eyes.

  “Put it out of your mind. There’s just no time for—keep an eye on him.” He left them together, isolated in their pain.

  Parris switched on the radio in the Explorer, adjusted the squelch, and pressed the transmit button on the microphone. Piggy answered his summons and Parris moaned with disappointment. He had hoped to get Clara Tavishuts, but it was evidently Slocum’s shift.

  “Slocum, this is Chief Parris. Now listen carefully.” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word, as if to a child who barely understood anything but the simplest phrases. “Get a notepad. We have an emergency. Write down exactly what I tell you.”

  “Ten-four, Chief. I’m ready.” Piggy switched the transmission from his headphones to the loudspeaker and found a pad. He couldn’t locate a pencil. Never mind, he thought, I’ll remember whatever big shot Dick Tracy has to say. It’s not like I’m stupid!

  “We have a citizen with two gunshot wounds. Lost lots of blood. Send an ambulance to the Potter-Evans cabin, about five miles off the pavement on Slingshot Road. Do that first, while I wait, then get back on the horn.”

  “Got it, Chief.”

  Parris waited impatiently. Please, God. Just let Slocum get it right. Just this once.