Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  Daisy did not want to tell him. Generally speaking, Scott Parris was a lot more understanding about her “methods” than Charlie Moon was. But it was a good practice never to tell a cop more than you absolutely had to. “I have my ways. That’s all I can say.”

  He nodded. “Okay. I guess you’ve got sources to protect.” Like that little dwarf who lives in Spirit Canyon. “So tell me—who dynamited Dr. Blinkoe’s houseboat?”

  She cast a wary glance toward the DeSoto residence. “I have some suspicions, but I’m not quite ready to say.”

  Parris’s face broke into a broad grin. “Great. Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Daisy gave him a nasty look. “If you want to know where Pansy Blinkoe’s hiding out, you’d best mind your manners.”

  “From this moment, I’m on my best behavior.” He was beginning to enjoy her little game. “But please don’t tell me you think she’s somewhere between Mexico City and Anchorage. Try to be a little more specific.”

  “I can tell you exactly where she is.”

  “Okay. Exactly would be close enough.”

  Daisy pointed toward a spot across the road. “She’s right over there.”

  The lawman turned to look. “In the church building?”

  The elderly woman strained, but could not remember. So she had to ask. “Who was that doofus deputy who worked for Andy Griffith?”

  “You mean in that old Mayberry TV show?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That was Barney Fife.” Parris smiled fondly at the childhood memory. “Andy, he’d only let ol’ Barney carry one bullet for his gun. And Barney had to keep that cartridge in his pocket.”

  “I know all about the bullet and Aunt Bea and cute little Oafie. Now ask me—”

  “Opie.”

  “Forget about Mayberry. Now ask me again.”

  This caused him to pause and reflect. “Ask you what?”

  “About Pansy being over there across the road, in the church.”

  “Okay. Is Mrs. Pansy Blinkoe hiding out in the church?”

  “No, Barney Fife, she’s holed in with that pimp DeSoto.” Having said this, Daisy felt considerably better.

  S. Parris, aka B. Fife, groaned. I should have known. “So that’s why you were over there harassing an innocent citizen, trying to break his door down with your walking stick?”

  “If Pineapple Head DeSoto is innocent, I’m Saint What’s her-name.” Not being able to remember things like names was a constant annoyance. “And he’s probably not even an American citizen. I bet he’s from Panama or Massachusetts or someplace like that!”

  Gently, Parris put a hand on her shoulder and did his best imitation of an amiable Carolina drawl. “Aunt Bea, if you would tell me just one thing—”

  “My name ain’t Aunt Bea.”

  “And you’re not a thing like that sweet little lady. But what I’d like to know is—what makes you think Mrs. Blinkoe is hiding in the DeSoto residence?”

  Daisy got that stubborn look.

  “Oh, right.” He flashed a disarming grin. “You have your ways.”

  “Hmmpf,” she said. And meant it.

  He tried a shot in the dark. “I’d bet a dollar to a Dr Pepper it was a dream.”

  “Then you’d lose your dollar, Mr. Smart Mouth, ’cause it wasn’t no dream. It was a vision that—” Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. I let him trick me.

  “A vision.” Parris slammed fist against palm. “Well, that throws a whole new light on things.” He took some time, as if thinking the thing up one way and down the other. “Okay. Here’s the deal. Three A.M. tomorrow, me and a dozen hand-picked officers will throw a cordon around the place. We’ll give DeSoto one minute flat to produce Mrs. Blinkoe. He doesn’t, we go in guns blazing. We’ll shoot every living soul full of holes, then burn his house to the ground.”

  Daisy glared at the insolent man. “You used to be a fairly nice person, for a matukach.”

  “Excuse me, madam—I do not mean to seem overly sensitive. But to my ears, this does not sound like the preamble to a heartfelt compliment.”

  “But now you’ve got a mean streak a yard wide. I guess it comes from hanging around with my smart-aleck nephew.”

  “I’ll go along with that. For years now, my motto has been: ‘Don’t blame me—it’s all Charlie Moon’s fault.’”

  “Ahem.” This was Louise-Marie’s way of making her presence known. “I’ve got all my stuff in the trunk of your police car.”

  “I thank you,” Parris said. Now I have to decide where to stash the Olds so it doesn’t get spotted by one of my officers.

  Unable to stand the suspense any longer, Pokey Joe emerged from the her place of business to confront the lawman. With a closer look, his face seemed familiar. “Hey—ain’t you that cop from town who came out here last year and arrested the jerk who kept breakin’ into my store at night and stealin’ all my sugar-cured hams and free-range eggs?”

  Scott Parris tipped his felt hat. “Yes ma’am. It was me that put the pinch on the breakfast burglar.”

  She flashed him a toothy smile. “Well, I’m glad to see you again. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, I hope you won’t mind asking.”

  “As a matter of fact, there is and I don’t.” He gave her the ignition key. “These ladies, who are friends of mine, have had a bit of trouble with their automobile. It appears that someone has substituted a Mexican plate for the legal one that was issued by the great state of Colorado. Until we can get this straightened out, I would appreciate it if you would keep an eye on Mrs. LaForte’s vintage Oldsmobile. I would appreciate it even more if you would park it in an out-of-the way spot, so some ardent collector of classic automobiles doesn’t steal it.”

  Pokey Joe eyed the key, the car, the fine-looking man. “Why, I wouldn’t mind a-tall.” She hopped into the Olds, drove it behind her store.

  Parris gave Daisy a hearty one-armed hug. “Please get inside my fine black-and-white automobile and make yourself extremely comfortable.”

  Daisy gave the cop car a thoughtful look. I don’t want Louise-Marie where she can talk to him. “I’ll sit up front.”

  “Sorry,” the lawman said. “The front passenger seat is reserved for petty criminals like jaywalkers, shoplifters, and little boys who pull the rabbi’s beard. But the man behind the wheel—which happens to be me—needs protection from truly dangerous felons, like tribal elders who corrupt sweet little French-Canadian ladies, hit-and-run drivers, and meddlers who make a general nuisance of themselves. By departmental rules, such hardcases are required to ride in the backseat, behind the bulletproof partition.” He looked down at the Columbine hound. “Along with any nonhumans that happen to require transportation.”

  Sidewinder emitted an eager whine, wagged his whiplike tail.

  Daisy was miffed. “If you don’t like that bolo tie that I scrimped and saved for, you can give it back.”

  “I will,” Scott Parris said. “Soon as you return the expensive radio I gave you.” He opened the rear door.

  “I already told you,” Daisy muttered, “that contraption was burned up in the fire. If you know how I can give you back something that’s nothing but ashes scattered to the four winds, please explain it so I can understand!”

  “Get in the car,” he explained.

  35

  Mean Old Woman

  Scott Parris thought long and hard about how best to deal with this sticky issue. They had left Pokey Joe’s General Store miles behind them before the Granite Creek chief of police came to a decision. He addressed himself to the tiny woman in the passenger seat. “I’ll work out a way to get your car back to Ignacio. But from now on, you’ll have to keep the plate up-to-date.” He could see only the patched eye, thought she might be asleep.

  Louise-Marie LaForte was wide awake. “Whatever you think is best.”

  “Do you think you could find a qualified driver to take you places—like to the grocery store or the doctor’s office?”


  Louise-Marie nodded. “There’s Henry, who lives next door.” He’s only eleven, but he drives almost as good as me.

  “Well, I hope you’ll talk to him.”

  Daisy Perika was seated directly behind the driver. The hound was curled up on the seat beside her, his head resting in her lap. The angry woman was barely aware of the dog. Her entire attention was on a spot between the lawman’s collar and hairline. The shaman was doing her best to raise a blister.

  Her victim felt an itch on the back of his neck. He tried to scratch it away.

  The Ute woman grinned. I ain’t quite lost my touch.

  Parris scratched again. I must’ve got a mosquito bite.

  Residue of a life

  Charlie Moon was wandering around the grounds of his aunt’s former home, picking up bits of this and pieces of that. A ballpoint pen here, a plastic hair clasp there, a little blue bottle filled with ground-up leaves, a scorched coffee can wedged into the crotch of a piñon branch. There was no way of knowing what might constitute a treasure for the tribal elder. He had just squatted to retrieve a blackened dime when the telephone in his jacket pocket warbled. The tribal investigator checked the caller ID, smiled. His best friend’s voice would be just the tonic.

  Smoothing things over

  Daisy knew perfectly well whom Scott Parris was calling. “You’re not supposed to use one of those phones while you’re driving,” she said. “There’s a rule against that!”

  “There are exemptions for us sworn officers of the law,” he said over his shoulder, and heard Charlie Moon’s hello in his ear. Parris responded in his usual hearty tone. “Hey, pardner—how’re you doing?”

  Straining to eavesdrop on both sides of the conversation, Daisy leaned forward, turned her ear toward a patch of tiny perforations in the plastic partition. She was able to hear the white policeman’s words, but her nephew might as well have been on Mars.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Parris said. “Oh, I’m fine as frog’s hair.” He listened to a query about what he was up to. “Oh, nothin’ much. Had to make a little run out east of town—to assist a pair of elderly motorists.” Two heartbeats. “They were experiencing problems with an old, black Oldsmobile.” A longer silence. “No, nothing like that. Turns out they had a faulty license plate.” He smiled at the response. “I’ll give you one guess, ’cause that’s all you’ll need.” Parris snickered. “Well, that’s one of ’em.” He nodded at the invisible communicant. “Right again, your aunt was with her Canadian sidekick. But you don’t need to worry, they’re both all right. I’ll deliver Daisy to the Columbine in about an hour, then I’ll run Louise-Marie down to Ignacio.” He listened to a welcome offer. That’d save me a long and tiresome round trip. “I’ll ask her.” Parris spoke to the passenger beside him. “Charlie would like for you to stay the night at his ranch. He says you’d be welcome as a warm breeze in December.”

  Louise-Marie shook her little gray head back and forth.

  “She appreciates the offer, but I think she’d like to sleep in her own bed tonight.” Which means I’ll be on the road till way after dark. “Okay, pardner. See you later.”

  Daisy thought her thoughts. Scott never intended to put me and Louise-Marie in no lineup. And I don’t think he means to tell Charlie about the run-in I had with that pockmarked pimp or how I run over that white cop’s foot. Scott’s doing everything he can to keep me and Louise-Marie out of trouble. So I guess I’ll stop trying to burn a blister on his neck. She waited until they had passed through Granite Creek, then tapped on the Plexiglas shield.

  Parris glanced at the rearview mirror. “Yeah?”

  Daisy spoke through the patch of tiny holes. “I had some time to think about it.” She took a deep breath. “I guess you can keep that expensive bolo tie I gave you.”

  “I am much obliged.” He grinned at the reflection. “And you can keep the cinders and ashes from that expensive radio that got toasted.”

  The sly old woman smiled. Scott’s all right. For a blue-eyed matukach devil. Despite some setbacks, this had turned out to be a pretty good day. A hundred times better than sitting alone at home, wishing something interesting would happen. She leaned her head back on the seat, stared at a dim image of herself that looked back from the Plexiglas shield.

  Sidewinder mumbled something in his sleep.

  Daisy’s hand was resting on the hound’s head.

  For a hundred ticks and tocks of the cosmic clock, nothing unusual happened.

  Then—

  Daisy was mildly intrigued when her reflection faded away from the polished plastic. She was absolutely electrified by the image that replaced it.

  Why, it’s me and Louise-Marie. And we’re walking down that little road toward Pineapple Head’s house. But we look really tall, like someone was looking up at us—someone whose face is close to the ground. Could it be the pitukupf? She did not think so. The little man rarely strayed more than a few miles from his badger hole in Cañón del Espíritu. And then she knew—

  In an instant, and with a flash of opalescent light, she was jerked away from ordinary consciousness into that timeless, twilight place.

  The Shaman’s strange world was without color. But it did not matter that Daisy’s vision was limited to shades of gray—she could smell dozens of wonderful scents that she had never known before. Underneath her, four soft feet padded along—her black nose sniffed and snuffed at this and that. She was searching for something. Something warm, something fleshy. Now she was moving more quickly along a dirt lane, beside an old fence row. Then the rabbit jumped up from a clump of sage, bounded off. Her heart raced with the most elemental joy she had ever known—she chased after the cottontail with a wild abandon! Her world was a forest of leafy bushes, her own hoarse barking—and the overpowering odor of the fleeing rabbit’s fear. The chase seemed as if it would never end, then she was digging in the earth with her front paws. The terrified rodent was not there. She heard herself whining.

  Quite unexpectedly, there was someone standing beside her. She looked up at the young woman, who smiled and said something. The human’s words were unintelligible, but friendly, even empathetic—as if she was also familiar with struggle, anguish, loss.

  Daisy jerked with an unpleasant twitch, as if a spike of electrical current had passed along her spine. She looked at the sleeping dog’s head in her lap, and understood. You seen her, didn’t you? Pansy Blinkoe was in that house with Pineapple Head, all right—but when she saw me and Louise-Marie coming, she must’ve slipped away, run off to hide in the bushes. For a moment, she considered telling the white policeman what she now knew for a fact. But he’d want to know how I could be so sure, and I could never tell him how I’d seen what was in this dog’s mind. So I’ll keep this to myself until I can figure out what to do about it.

  Scott Parris was pleased with how he had managed a potentially sticky situation. Eddie Knox won’t try to find out who ran over his foot; he’ll just be relieved when I change my mind about putting him and Slocum on suspension. Louise-Marie will get a legal plate put on her Olds, and that man who lives next door will do the driving for her. And I put enough of a scare into Daisy that she’s finally learned her lesson. He exhaled a gratifying sigh. By tomorrow, this business will have all blown over.

  They moved on down the road, along the arrow of time—into an unknown, unknowable future.

  36

  Grumpy Old Woman

  After Scott Parris had deposited Daisy at the Columbine and departed with Louise-Marie LaForte, the Ute woman went directly to her downstairs bedroom and shut the door. An hour later, hearing Charlie Moon drive up, she slipped into bed with all her clothes on and switched off the light. When he tapped lightly on her door, asked if she was all right, she pretended to be sound asleep, even to the deceit of faking a snore. She listened tensely while he had his evening meal, then made his way upstairs to his bed.

  Even after the entire house was dark, Daisy could find no rest. Well past midnight, she lay wide-awake in
the comfortable four-poster, staring up at a dark void where the ceiling ought to be. The events of this singular day kept racing through her mind. Louise-Marie LaForte, with a patch over her eye, almost running the car off the Too Late bridge. That mean white policeman, telling her to get out of the car, then dancing around after she ran over his foot. The police car chasing after her, then running off the road. Pokey Joe in her tentlike overalls, dispensing sandwiches and Twinkies. Pockmarked Pineapple Head DeSoto, his bulging belly hanging out from under his sissy yellow shirt.

  Finally, at a small hour, Daisy drifted off into a troubled sleep. Almost immediately, she was plagued with the most bizarre dream. She was running and tumbling through the brush and the brambles. At one moment she was the terrified rabbit, then she would assume the role of the pursuing hound. But always—in the background—was the slim form of the yellow-haired white woman. Pansy Blinkoe watched the chasing game, clapped her hands to see such sport.

  The first hint of daylight came absurdly early.

  When she heard her nephew moving around in the kitchen, Daisy put her feet on the cold hardwood floor. Oh, God. I am too old to keep on living—I should’ve been in the ground a dozen years ago. She took a deep breath and tried to think a positive thought. Once I get myself up, I’ll start to feel better. One creaking joint at a time, she got herself up. She did not feel the least bit better. On the contrary, what she saw in the full-length mirror made her shudder. What a pitiful old woman—I look like death warmed over.

  Charlie Moon tapped on the door. “You ready for some coffee?”

  “I’m ready for a coffin.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. Once I manage to pull myself together, I’ll be out.” If I stay alive that long. But the wonderful scent of fresh coffee seeped through the cracks around the door, and this did the trick. As she began to pull on her day clothes, the old woman started thinking about yesterday, and the week before—all the things she was angry about. And what she could do to get even. By the time she stomped into the big ranch-house kitchen, Daisy was glaring at her nephew, ready to tear into him tooth and claw. She was momentarily deterred by something that struck her as quite odd. “Why’re you dolled up in your best suit of clothes?”