Chapter Thirty-One
The Shaman’s Game
Gorman took a gander at the things his elderly cousin had loaded into the bed of the GMC pickup while he was having his breakfast. A big canvas laundry bag, evidently stuffed with clothing. Several quilts and blankets, a fluffy feather pillow. And Daisy wasn’t finished. At her instructions, he carried out three heavy cardboard boxes that were filled with canned goods, everything from vegetable-barley soup and great northern beans to peach halves (in heavy syrup), old-fashioned SPAM and candied yams. There was also a box of Saltine crackers and two bags of chocolate-chip cookies.
The better to look askance at this load of freight, the curious man cocked his head. “You figure the Father’ll eat all of that?”
“Sure. That skinny little priest puts food away like a starved grizzly.” She pushed a plastic grocery bag of miscellaneous items into the truck bed. “I’ve always had a suspicion that he’s got a tapeworm.” The self-assured diagnostician wiped her hands on a cotton apron. And he especially likes cookies. She added this to an already long list of medical clues. Next time I get the chance, I’ll fix him some of my tapeworm medicine. But first I’ll need to get me some kerosene and about a pint of castor oil…
Gorman glanced at his cousin. “Is that it?”
“No, but what’s left I’ll put up front.”
Daisy’s cousin lifted the heavy tailgate, slammed it into place. “I’ve heard some talk about Charlie Moon’s big lake—they say it’s so chock-full of trout that a man can walk across the water on their backs. Barefooted, without getting his ankles wet.” He lowered the shell door, snapped it into place, shot Daisy a hopeful glance. “I got some fishin’ tackle in the cab. You reckon Charlie might let me drop a hook in the water?”
“Maybe.” She looked doubtful. “If I put in a good word for you.”
Gorman watched her toddle back into the house.
Daisy returned with the cat cradled in her arms.
The driver looked down his nose at the creature. “You thinkin’ of takin’ that scabby-lookin’ chewed-up animal with us—in my brand-new pickup?”
“I’m not just thinking about it—I’m doing it.” She placed Mr. Zig-Zag in the cab, then got in herself. Once she was settled, Daisy turned her glare on the reluctant chauffeur. “Gorman, I got news for you—you’ll have to crank this thing up. It won’t go by itself.”
During the long drive north, Daisy busied herself with removing a final few burrs from the cat’s fur. It was a monotonous task, much like knitting a sweater or applying tiny colored beads to soft buckskin moccasins—the sort of work a woman does when she needs to think. And Daisy had quite a lot to think about. So much that she had no intention of wasting these precious minutes gabbing with her addle-brained cousin.
As mile markers passed like lonely soldiers retreating to the rear, Gorman endured the silent treatment—but he could not understand his relative’s reticence to chat about this and that. The man had his feelings. And they were hurt. As they were entering the southern edge of Granite Creek, he could no longer contain the pent-up store of words that had been building up behind his lips, and decided to break the ice by bringing up a subject of wide and general interest. “GMC sure makes a first-class truck.”
Daisy removed the last sticky seedpod, put it on her knee with the others.
“This one’s got an after-market CD player. And satellite digital radio. And six speakers. And—” He winced as his cousin stuffed the cluster of cockleburs into the pickup’s immaculate ashtray.
The grateful animal purred like a finely tuned model motorboat motor. And looked up at Daisy as if on the verge of making a thoughtful comment. Or, perhaps, to ask his benefactor a question.
“D’you want to hear some music?” (No, this was Gorman speaking.)
“If I do,” Daisy snapped, “I’ll let you know.”
This response—which he took as negative—caused a gray cloud to pass over Gorman Sweetwater’s craggy face. But a determined conversationalist does not throw in the towel when he has taken one on the chin. Bobbing and weaving past the sensitive subject of music, he readied a heavy counterpunch. Horsepower. “This model’s got the finest V-8 engine ever to come out of Detroit City.” Knowing she would be staggered by this, he followed up with a bone-jarring uppercut. “And computer-controlled all-wheel drive.”
Daisy’s face was like granite.
The driver slowed for a stoplight. “And high-tech brakes that—”
“And a big air bag at the wheel.”
The lightweight glared at his passenger. “What?”
She offered him the wide-eyed innocent look. “An air bag on the driver’s side—ain’t that what you told me when we was talking on the phone last night?” She reached over to pat her relatively slow-witted relative on the arm. “I bet you thought I’d already forgot.”
The light changed, he drove on—but with a nagging suspicion that he had been knocked off his pegs. He just couldn’t figure out how she’d done it.
By high noon, Gorman Sweetwater had passed through the main Columbine gate, and was tooling along the miles-long ranch road.
As they approached the foreman’s house, Daisy barked an instruction. “Slow down.”
He meekly followed his cousin’s order.
Dolly Bushman was on the front porch, mercilessly beating a dusty throw rug to death.
I don’t want her to get suspicious. Daisy grinned crookedly, waved. “Hello, there!”
The foreman’s kindly wife returned the gesture, smiled, yelled back: “Hello yourself, Daisy. It’s nice to see you. Charlie’s still not back yet but—”
“Then I guess I won’t be staying long.” She addressed Cousin Gorman out of the corner of her mouth. “I’m through talking to White-Eyes—step on the gas!”
Dolly watched the pickup lumber off, listened as it rumbled across the bridge over Too Late Creek. Well now I’ve seen everything—Charlie Moon’s grouchy old aunt is behaving almost like a normal human being. She must be feeling good today.
Daisy Perika was feeling good. Today, things were definitely going her way.
Gorman slowed at the ranch headquarters—where Charlie Moon hung his hat and Daisy had a downstairs bedroom reserved for her occasional visits.
The tribal elder reached over to jerk at her cousin’s sleeve, which caused the pickup to swerve. “Keep right on going.” She pointed. “Take the dirt track around that big red barn—it goes over the ridge that has all the spruce, and then to the cabin. That’s where Father Raes stays when he’s not off running all over Europe or South America.”
The fisherman had his own priorities. “Where’s the lake?”
“Not too far from the cabin.” Daisy watched the Columbine hound appear from under the wraparound porch, raise his nose to sniff the air. I wonder if he can smell the cat.
When they arrived at their destination, Father Raes’s old Buick was nowhere in sight. Daisy breathed a sigh of relief. Thank goodness he’s not back yet. But she knew that he never locked his cabin door. On the Columbine, there was no need for the sort of precautions that town folk had to worry about.
Unless, of course, Daisy Perika came calling.
Having parked in the inky shade of a blue-black spruce, Gorman opened the camper shell, lowered the tailgate, unbuttoned his shirt-sleeves.
“Just take in those heavy boxes, with the canned food—then you can go fishing.” Daisy had the whining, squirming cat clutched in her arms. “I’ll tote the rest of this stuff in myself.”
His eyebrow arched itself. As if to say: When you act all goody-goody nice, I am naturally skeptical. The eyebrow was entirely justified in its suspicions.
After Gorman had completed his appointed task, Daisy pointed toward the alpine lake. “Now take your fishing pole over there—see if you can catch yourself a ten-pound trout.” Having disposed of Mr. Zig-Zag, she reached for a small bag of groceries. “Fish for an hour, but not a minute more. By the time you get back, I’l
l be ready to go.”
He did and she was.
When Gorman returned with a fourteen-inch rainbow, he found Daisy waiting in the pickup. The ecstatic angler waved the wriggling catch in her face. “Caught him on a red-eyed grasshopper!”
“That’s a pretty fish.” The old woman glanced at the cabin, where she saw the cat’s face in the window. And, for a fleeting moment, that other face, which looked as if it might weep forever. Daisy turned away. “Let’s get going.” She added: “When we get to Durango, I’ll top off your gas tank.”
And so they drove away.
If it was not the best of days, it was certainly not the worst.
Consider Gorman Sweetwater. He had enjoyed a free, top-notch breakfast, pulled a fine trout from Charlie Moon’s private lake, and drove home with a full tank of gasoline in his brand-new red GMC truck with the genuine fiberglass shell on the back. Per diem, the take had been more than adequate. A sensible man should not expect any more of a day than that.
Consider Daisy Perika. The tribal elder had accomplished her immediate objectives—laid down her burdens, one might rightly say. She had left that pesky cat in Father Raes’s log cabin. And that wasn’t all she’d left there, but the old woman tried not to think about that unfortunate aspect of the matter. Daisy was not proud of what she had done, but neither did she feel an overwhelming sense of guilt. Under the extraordinary circumstances, the Ute elder had very few options—none of them pleasant to contemplate. She consoled herself with the thought that this unfortunate business was now her nephew’s problem.
It was well past midnight, and Daisy was tossing and turning in her bed as troublesome thoughts pounded in her head. She wondered what would happen when Charlie Moon found out what she’d done. And what would happen if Father Raes found out first. Daisy desperately wanted to confide in someone—someone who would understand why she had felt compelled to take this course of action. I can’t very well talk to Louise-Marie LaForte—that old biddy couldn’t keep a secret if you sewed it onto her skin. The sleepless woman wondered whether Marilee Attatochee was lying wide awake in her bed, worrying herself half to death over what had become of Sarah Frank. I bet she’s looking at the walls, just like me—and can’t sleep a wink. She rolled over for the thirty-third time, stared at the telephone by her bed. I could call her up and tell her that Sarah…But that made no sense at all. I’d be a silly old woman to do such a thing. Daisy was not silly. Far from it.
But she kept looking at the telephone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Wrong Number
Without knowing how she had gotten there, Marilee Attatochee found herself inside a long, shadowy space. The chamber was enclosed by gray stone walls that were set with tall stained-glass windows; pink-eyed bats flitted about a darkly beamed loft. A new red carpet had been rolled out along a narrow aisle that separated an assortment of rough-hewn benches. The altar (if it was an altar) was illuminated by dozens of black tapers. The priest (if there was a priest) was nowhere to be seen, but illuminated by the flickering light of the candles, a pale, eight-year-old version of Al Harper was picking a five-string banjo, singing “If You’ve Got the Money, Papago Gal—I’ve Got the Time.”
One moment, Marilee was seated on a bench—the next she was standing at the end of the line of mourners, which numbered precisely three. When the singer-musician began to pick a few licks of “Bluegrass Breakdown,” Marilee began to tap her foot.
The man in front of her turned to present a long, horse-like face. “Please, madam—do not disturb the solemn nature of the ceremony!”
“Sorry—I guess I got carried away.” She added: “I’m kinda mixed up.”
He looked down a beak-like nose, cleared his throat. “Mixed up, you say?”
She explained: “I don’t know where I am.”
A broad smile. “Why you’re at the Tonapah Flats Hi-Tone Funeral Home, Community Crematory, and Small Engine Repair Shop.”
“But what am I doing here?”
He sighed, shook his head: “You are attending a jim-dandy memorial service—the jim-dandiest one we’ve had all year!” Long fingers clicking like castanets, he performed a quick little three-step jig, finishing with: “Cha-cha-cha!”
“Who died?”
After doing an expert backflip, the dancer-acrobat replied: “That barbarous little Indian girl, of course—the one who murdered pooooor old Mr. Silver.” A thin brow arched to a suspicious height. “Are you a relative of the youthful criminal or otherwise responsible for the felony?”
Sarah’s cousin shook her head. “No. I’m just…Mr. Silver’s taxi driver.”
“Oh. I see. Well, I suppose that’s all right, then.” He was distracted by a sudden warbling sound. “Excuse me, but it would appear that I have a chickadee concealed somewhere on my person.” He searched his pockets, apologized for the error. “Sorry—it’s a call on line four.” There was another warble as he opened his coat. From the five pastel instruments attached firmly to his chest he selected the green one. An equally green spiral cord connected the telephone to a terminal just above his left shirt pocket. “Who is calling?” A pause. “If you do not wish to speak to me, why did you ring my private line?” He listened, then glared at Marilee. “This is quite irregular, Miss Attatochee.”
“What?”
“The call—it’s for you.”
The dreamer’s eyes opened wide—she could still hear the telephone ringing from the other side. No, not that other side—the other side of the bed.
Marilee Attatochee blinked at an alarm clock’s illuminated face. Nobody in their right mind would call me after two A.M. It’ll be some slobbering drunk who thinks I’m his best friend. Or it’ll be Al, wanting me to bail him out of jail. She listened to another ring. No, it can’t be Al, because I let him come back—which was really a stupid thing to do because he’s such a jerk—but I was so lonesome. She closed her eyes. Maybe I didn’t let him back in the house. Maybe that was just a bad dream too. A groan. I wish I hadn’t but I know I did because he’s here in the bed beside me. I can hear the half-wit snoring. The annoyed Papago woman gave her live-in boyfriend a sharp elbow in the ribs. “Wake up!”
“Arrrgh…Eeeunngh…” Alphonse Harper also made a gargling sound.
She applied another elbow-dig.
“Wha…What?”
“Answer the phone.”
He scowled at the plump lump beside him. “Why don’t you answer it?”
“Because it’s on your side of the bed, dipstick!”
“Oh. Awright, then.” Al scrambled around until he got a hand on the noisy instrument, pressed it against his ear. Immediately he heard the whisper from somewhere faraway:
“Marilee…Marilee?”
I knew it’d be for her. “Whozis?”
Silence.
He switched on a light. “Dammit, who’s woke me up in the middle a the night?”
Dead silence.
“Dammit!” Al banged the instrument down. “I hate it when people do that!” He turned his scowl on the telephone. “Ain’t there some kind of law—”
“Shut up, Alphonse.”
He switched off the light, muttered a vulgar curse at the caller, whined a lament to his girlfriend. “Now I won’t be able to go back to sleep.” The wide-awake complainant was talking to a woman who had already drifted off. Back to the funeral.
The line was shuffling along slowly, but Marilee found herself beside the small white casket. “Why’s it closed?”
She had not asked anyone in particular, but a little girl at her right elbow put a yellow daisy on the casket and said sweetly: “It’s because Sarah is horribly, horribly mutilated.”
As he had predicted, Alphonse Harper did not go back to sleep. For ever so long, he lay flat on his back, staring at a dark place where the ceiling surely was. After ever-so-long plus a minute or two, a light came on. In his head. Figuratively speaking. This was quite a new experience for Mr. Harper—one that startled him. I bet I know who that was on
the phone!
He slipped out of bed, taking considerable care not to waken Marilee. Which, if she had noticed, would have made her suspicious that Al was up to no good. Which he was. In the parlor, he switched on a lamp on a corner table, examined a second telephone. “Ah-ha,” he said. This was a big “Ah-ha.” It was, in fact—for the first and last time in Al’s mostly inconsequential life—a true moment of discovery. And one that the small-time entrepreneur figured he might turn a tidy profit by.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Making the Deal
Raymond Oates gazed across his granite-top desk at the pathetic-looking character who had knocked on his office door a moment earlier. Wonder what he’s doing here?
Slouch hat in hand, Al Harper was hunched slightly forward—like a bullfrog about to jump. This amphibian-metaphoric appearance was misleading; Marilee Attatochee’s boyfriend was merely leaning toward his hope for a taste of prosperity, which was embodied in the physical person of this wealthy man.
The corpulent attorney pulled a six-hundred-dollar lighter from a tight vest pocket, touched it to the tip of a tightly wrapped Arturo Fuente. “Take a load off, Al.”
Harper selected a fatly padded leather armchair. “Thanks, boss.”
“I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘boss.’” Oates clenched his capped teeth on the cigar. “You are not in my employ.”
“Uh, sorry.” The sycophant grinned obsequiously, shifted his pelvis around until he found the optimum spot for comfort. “Didn’t mean no harm, Mr. Oates. When I say ‘boss,’ it’s just my way of showing respect.”
Somewhat mollified by this clumsy flattery, Oates leaned back in his throne-like chair, eyeballed the clock on the wall. “It’s just a few minutes past ten.” He allowed himself a sardonic grin. “I can’t figure out what brings you out so early in the morning, but I’ll make two guesses. Either Marilee kicked you out again, or Marilee kicked you out again. Which one is it?”
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