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Killer acclaim for James D. Doss and his Charlie Moon mysteries
Shadow Man
“Doss likes to toss a little Native American spiritualism and a lot of local color into his mysteries. Fans of the series will be well pleased.”
—Booklist
“Fans of Daisy Perika, the 80-something shaman who brings much of the charm and supernatural thrill to James D. Doss’s mystery series, should like Shadow Man…nice reading.”
—Rocky Mountain News
The Witch’s Tongue
“With all the skill and timing of a master magician, Doss unfolds a meticulous plot laced with a delicious sense of humor and set against a vivid southern Colorado.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Doss’s ear for Western voices is remarkable, his tone whimsical…. If you don’t have time for the seven-hour drive from Denver to Pagosa, try Witch’s Tongue for a taste of southern Colorado.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“A classy bit of storytelling that combines myth, dreams, and plot complications so wily they’ll rattle your synapses and tweak your sense of humor.”
—Kirkus Reviews
Dead Soul
“Hillerman gets the most press, but Doss mixes an equally potent brew of crime and Native American spirituality.”
—Booklist
“Lyrical and he gets the sardonic, macho patter between men down cold. The finale is heartfelt and unexpected, and a final confrontation stuns with its violent and confessional precision.”
—Providence Journal Bulletin
The Night Visitor
“The author is indeed a treasure…. A hybrid of Tony Hillerman and Carl Hiaasen, but with an overall sensibility that is uniquely Doss.”
—Denver Post
“The dialogue crackles, and the Southern Colorado atmosphere astonishes, especially at night.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fans won’t be disappointed…. Doss pulls together an archeological dig, abandoned children, and a good, old-fashioned murder to pull off his latest success.”
—Chicago Tribune
The Shaman’s Game
“Suspenseful and satisfying…. Doss has reproduced the land of the Southern Colorado Utes with vivid affection.”
—Dallas Morning News
“Doss could be accused of poaching in Tony Hillerman territory…but Doss mixes mysticism and murder with his own unmistakable touch.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“Deft storytelling…compelling…ingenious…intense…a richness of prose and plot that lifts it out of the expected ranks of mystery fiction.”
—Arizona Daily Star
Grandmother Spider
“Propelled by fast-paced action and intriguing characters…like something out of Stephen King…with snippets from Dave Barry.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Humor crackles through pages packed with surprises.”
—Albuquerque Journal
The Shaman’s Bones
“Fans of Tony Hillerman’s Navajo mysteries will find a new home here.”
—Denver Post
“A worthy addition to a richly rewarding series…Doss again creates a fascinating mix of gritty police work, the spiritual traditions of Southwestern Indians and irresistible characters.”
—Publishers Weekly
The Shaman Laughs
“This is Hillerman country…but Doss is gaining…I hope these shaman activities go on for a long time.”
—Boston Globe
The Shaman Sings
“Magical…Tantalizing…Doss grounds otherworldly elements in a realistic murder plot.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Gripping…Fast-paced…Doss successfully blends the cutting edge of modern physics with centuries-old mysticism.”
—Rocky Mountain News
White Shell Woman
“Although less well-known than other Native American-based mystery series, the Charlie Moon novels are quickly rising to the top of the pack. Doss has a fine comic touch—playing off Moon’s laconic wit against Daisy’s flamboyant personality—and he just may be the best of the bunch at seamlessly integrating anthropological and spiritual material into his stories.”
—Booklist
For
Thomas A. Lopez
White Rock, New Mexico,
and
Bill McCabe
Alma, New Mexico
Acknowledgments
I wish to offer my thanks to
Bret Doss
and
Dr. Joseph D. Matthews
Los Alamos, New Mexico
Contents
Prologue
1. Colorado, Southern Ute Reservation
2. Fourteen Months Later Granite Creek, Colorado
3. Scene of the Crime
4. What Harriet Saw Looking in her Window
5. What Daisy Found Under the Floor
6. An Unlikely Client
7. Dining with Daisy
8. The Pleasures of a Rancher’s Life
9. What Happened on Copper Street
10. The Perfectly Ordinary Bookstore
11. The Estate on Moccasin Lake
12. The Boat
13. The Lady Comes Calling
14. His Quiet Time
15. Beginner’s Luck
16. Her Daily Report
17. The Night Visitor
18. Missing Person
19. Dealing with Personnel Issues
20. To Gather Herbs
21. Rudely Awakened
22. A Debt of Honor
23. The Urgent Visitation
24. The Summons
25. Starting Over
26. Getting Even
27. On the Road Again
28. Soul Mates
29. Close Encounter of the Worst Kind
30. All in a Day’s Work
31. Daisy and Louise-Marie’s Excellent Adventure
32. Pokey Joe
33. A Meaningful Conversation with Mr. Desoto
34. Police Brutality
35. Mean Old Woman
36. Grumpy Old Woman
37. Paying a Call on Miss Atherton
38. At Big Tony’s
39. A Gift for the Lady
40. The Luna County Incident Revisited
41. Family Business
42. Another Man Done Gone
43. The Walk-In
44. The Outlaw Horse
45. The Longest Ride
46. Picnic
47. Giving it Another Shot
48. You-Know-Who
49. A Brand-New Day
50. Her Worried Mind
51. Making Amends
52. The Bag Man
53. The Excellent Benefits of True Contrition
54. A Compelling Proposition
55. A Long Night’s Work
56. An Odious Task
57. Early in the Morning
58. Whatever Lila Wants
59. Revelation at the Copper Street Delicatessen
60. Perched in the Catbird Seat
61. The Informer
62. You can go Home Again
63. A Disagreeable Late-Night Encounter
Prologue
Though knowing this is merely a dream—an afternoon nap’s delusion—you marvel at the intricately crafted il
lusion. Behold the panoramic canvas of earth and sky, with each line so finely drawn, every feature so infinitely detailed. Is the immensely gifted artist some hidden portion of yourself, or is the maestro someone else—someone altogether Other? Turning away from this cosmic question, you take another direction—along an alluring footpath that meanders between towering canyon walls. Feeling the soft crunch of sand and pebbles under your bare feet, you stroll alongside a shallow stream, in the cool shade of trembling willows—until a spray of sunlight warms your face. Now you proceed more carefully, avoiding pointy clusters of yucca spears—only to encounter a surly congregation of curiously sculpted, lichen-encrusted boulders. Are these artful stones pretending to be petrified souls—or might it be the other way around? As you ponder this conundrum, delectable scents of sage and wild roses waft past your nose. You reach out to pick a pink blossom, are startled by the rattling croak of a raven on yonder ponderosa. At your glance, Lady Darkwing takes to flight, soars over the mesa. She goes to console a spirit who sighs and moans over a few moldering bones.
Though the atmosphere is charged with an eerie anticipation of catastrophe, never has experience been so physically authentic, so concretely real. The single exception is Time, who slips past, stealing precious minutes and heartbeats and memories—the old thief moves far more swiftly here. Look to the heavens—see the flower-clouds wilt, only to blossom again, billow like ghostly schooner’s sails, then fade into diaphanous bridal veils.
Down here, black shadows slip across the sands like spilled ink—soon they will wet your feet! You move on—a little faster now.
Nearing the mouth of the chasm, you hear someone approaching from behind. It is the old hag who conceals dreadful secrets in the wraps of her dusky garments. Attempting to flee the rustling skirts of night, you take long, heavy-footed strides. In a growing panic, you sense another presence, but in your twilight flight you pass within a few paces—only dimly aware they are there.
The still sentries can hardly be distinguished from the drought-stunted trees.
Indeed, they seem to be rooted here.
The warrior’s spine is lodgepole pine, his lean limbs are corded like the bloodberry vine. But a spindly perception would be a misconception—this one does not bend in the wind.
Auntie is a hard, knotty old stump, twisted and bent from crown to trunk. She is known by her flinty, caustic bark—but it is her bite that leaves the toothy mark.
She has seen you! Hurry, hurry, hurry—
Wake up.
If you can.
1
Colorado, Southern Ute Reservation
Without a thought of mentioning the passing apparition to her nephew, the Ute shaman watched the dreamer’s phantom dissolve into a shadowy mist, evaporate into nothingness. It was unusual to encounter one of them out and about at this time of day, but during those wee hours just beyond midnight, one might see dozens of these tethered-to-the-body phantasms flitting about like nervous yucca moths. Daisy Perika believed that dreams prepared mortals for that time when the cord between body and soul shall be severed—and some must begin to serve their sentences as lonely, wandering ghosts. The aged Catholic fervently hoped (with God’s help) to bypass this dismal interval, and proceed directly to that mansion her blessed Savior had prepared for her in Upper World.
Charlie Moon could not have imagined the thoughts percolating through the old woman’s singular mind. Nor would he have wished for such a privilege.
The tribal policeman and his aged aunt stood on a curled-up ridge called the Cougar’s Tail. A little more than a stone’s throw away, the mouth of Cañón del Espíritu gaped as if it might swallow the entire valley whole, including Daisy’s little trailer home. Neither Moon nor his closest living relative was concerned about such an improbable outcome. These sensible folk were peaceably watching the scarlet smear of sunset.
Moon pushed his black Stetson back a notch to a jaunty position, looped an arm around the old woman’s shoulders. “You should move into town.”
Daisy snorted. “Why should I do a thing like that?”
“I worry about you.” The tall man looked down at the top of her head. “In Ignacio, you’d have neighbors to look in on you.”
“Neighbors—hah! I’d sooner have a family of skunks nesting under my floor.” Her lips crinkled into an enigmatic smile. And it’s not like I’m all by myself. The shaman gazed into Cañón del Espíritu, far past where her eyes could see, way up there where the dwarf made his home in the abandoned badger hole, even into those dark crooks and crannies where a multitude of spirits mumbled and muttered while they waited for Middle World to end and Judgment to begin. From time to time, one of them would come to talk to her. It might be the Little Man wanting something sweet to eat, or a gaunt old haunt starving for some conversation. Daisy’s dark eyes sparkled in the fading light. I have all the company I need.
The honeyed sun vanished behind Three Sisters Mesa. Before slipping into an unseen sea to bathe away the heat of day, she would pull a dark, star-sprinkled curtain down behind her.
The quiet in this remote place was more than the absence of sound. It was a peaceful river, flowing slowly out of the canyon. For a few heartbeats, it seemed as if Moon and Daisy were the only human beings in the world.
They were not, of course.
The planet was bustling and crackling with billions of busy people. All over the globe, on a multitude of stages, small and large dramas were being played out.
For example: About four hundred miles south of the Southern Ute reservation, something very big and bad and noisy was about to happen—an event that would, in time, unsettle the lives of Charlie Moon and his aunt Daisy.
New Mexico
A few yards above Luna County
A few minutes below midnight
The warning kept hammering in the pilot’s skull—This is just plain nuts.
William “Pappy” Hitchcock squinted at a tar-black sky that he imagined to be the root cellar of heaven. Or maybe not. It could be the penthouse of that other place. Whatever it was or wasn’t, he had the most peculiar sensation—that curious spirits of earlier aviators were watching him, wishing him good fortune, a happy landing. He grinned, tipped his baseball cap at the ghostly audience. Hey, Lucky Lindy…Halloo, Antoine-Marie-Roger de Saint-Exupery…Howdy there, Gus Grissom! Take a gander at Mrs. Hitchcock’s favorite son. Ain’t this a big, hairy horse-laugh? Me with this rickety old crate strapped to my butt, bumping along barely above the treetops, can’t see the ground half the time, can’t see the stars at all. And don’t forget this humungous summer thunderstorm, lightning flashing, thunder booming—winds shifting and twisting all over the place! It’s like everything and everybody is out to shoot me down—why, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised at antiaircraft fire!
A heavy barrage of hail rat-tatted on the windshield, dimpled the aircraft’s thin skin.
A caustic grin. Well thank you for that.
He estimated the odds of a fatal crash as somewhere in the neighborhood of even money. That was a bad neighborhood. And on top of that, the internal vicinity was distinctly unfriendly—every one of his surly passengers was airsick, wanted by Interpol, and packing. As if all this were not enough to make the trip sufficiently interesting, he was about to spring a highly unpleasant surprise on these outlaws. One might reasonably conclude that the captain of the 1940s-vintage aircraft was worried, or at least mildly concerned about the situation. If One did, One would be mistaken.
At least for the moment, Mr. Hitchcock was in fine fettle and form—particularly for a man of his years. He was also that rarest of all mortals—a genuinely happy person. This was because he had made a firm decision to put all of his troubles behind him. Most of them already were. Literally. A couple of hundred miles behind him was the Wings of War Military Aircraft Museum, from whose hangar—just hours ago—he had stolen the antique U.S. Army Air Force DC-3. As has already been alluded to, some of his troubles were more closely behind him. Back there in the
cargo bay, the half-dozen heavily armed cartel soldiers watched over a big pile of laundry bags that were stuffed tight as ticks with twenty-dollar bills.
Hitchcock gave little thought to his disgruntled passengers; his professional duties required all of his concentration. His instructions had been straightforward:
Stay under the FAA radar.
Land on the makeshift strip exactly six miles south of the Mexican border, where the cartel’s Humvee and laundry truck and troops would be waiting.
Carrying out Instruction Number One was enormous fun—snaking through serpentine canyons, surfing across rippling seas of silver grass, skimming over the crests of rugged mesas. Hitchcock figured he was flying about as low as he could get without clipping off treetops and colliding with high-jumping jackrabbits.
Executing Instruction Number Two might have been mere routine—a yawn. Except for the fact that he intended to add a dash of spice to the stew. Hitchcock planned to land the DC-3 at a makeshift strip just six miles north of the Mexican border, where his Humvee and his laundry truck and his troops would be waiting. Yes sirree—Pablo Feliciano and “Doc” Blinkoe would be there and they’d be loaded for bear. Oh, this switch-and-run was just too sweet. What a fine way to cap off a long career!
Alas, as it would come to pass—the worst of Mr. Hitchcock’s troubles were still out there in front of him. And coming up fast.
On the ground
Partly because he was the man with inside connections to the cartel, mostly because he had come up with the hijacking plan, but also because it would have taken both of his partners to outwit a bright twelve-year-old—Pablo Feliciano was the brains of the three-man outfit. The pump-action shotgun propped on his shoulder, the Colombian was busy doing what he did best. He paced back and forth, worried about what might go wrong. He could imagine all sorts of catastrophes. The DC-3 would crash or the sacks would be stuffed with newspaper instead of cash or the DEA would spot the airplane from a dirigible-mounted radar or the makeshift landing-strip lights would fail or they’d all end up in jail—something would surely go wrong. Maybe everything.
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