The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries) Page 8

  Daisy closed her eyes and mumbled a brief prayer to protect herself from soul loss. This act quelled her growing fear, but only slightly. When she opened her eyes, the fireballs were dancing in a circle on the very crest of Chimney Rock. As she watched in awe, the spheres of flame were extinguished and in their places she could see the naked human bodies of brujas and brujos, both female and male witches. Those in the mad celebration joined hands and began to intone their blasphemous incantations; she could hear the harsh sounds sweep against the wind and across the clearing to her hiding place behind the small tree. Daisy could not understand all the words, and that was all the better. But she could see the dancers clearly, as if she was viewing the scene through a telescope. She was debating whether to stay or flee when one of the brujas, a fat Pagosa woman she recognized, turned to look toward Daisy’s hiding place. The witch pointed a stubby finger and began to laugh, a mocking, cruel laughter. “Old hag,” she heard the fat bruja call out, “our master has special plans for you!” The threat sent arrows of ice into Daisy’s racing heart. Another witch looked familiar … yes … this brujo was a famous scholar from the university in Granite Creek. Daisy had seen him at the last Sun Dance, where the pompous man had discussed Ute ceremonial rites with great authority. The naked man snorted and made obscene gestures toward Daisy. “Want to ride on this, old squaw?” The other brujos began to imitate the obscenities while the brujas laughed hysterically at the vulgar sport. In all of her life, Daisy had not experienced such an evil presence or been so filled with paralyzing fear. She wanted to run, but in nightmarish fashion her old legs were like quaking aspen, rooted to the earth as her entire body trembled. More than anything, she wished that Nahum were with her. In her bitter frustration, Daisy wept. She felt that she would surely die. The woman from Pagosa Springs pretended to tremble while the others cackled with unwholesome delight. The witches, nourished by her fear, screamed mocking insults: “Where is your ‘power’ now, old sack of shit? Who will protect you from our circle … will you call upon the dwarf?”

  “Nahum,” Daisy muttered, her voice breaking, “why did you go away? I am afraid. What should I do?” Almost unconsciously, the Ute shaman’s hand moved to her forehead and made the sign of the cross. The witches abruptly ceased their loud mocking cries, their obscene gestures. Daisy made the sign again, this time deliberately, with an urgency born of fear. The voices of the witches became muffled; their wild laughter subsided. All sounds from the pinnacle of Chimney Rock were swept away in a sudden gust of dry wind. When she looked again, the gathering was standing in a circle, immobile and silent, hands solemnly joined around the dreaded presence: A whirlwind of fire, towering out of sight into the twilight sky, rotating ominously in their midst. The presence in the whirlwind called. Daisy cupped her palms over her ears and screamed to drown out the sound of the summons. Immediately, the old shaman found that she could move. As she hurried along the path away from the cursed place, Daisy pulled her shawl between her face and the pinnacle of rock. If Kwasigeti decided to show himself, she would not look upon the beast who rode the whirlwind.

  NINE

  At Tres Piedras, Parris turned east on Route 64 and headed across the high, barren plateau toward Taos. They were approaching the Rio Grande Gorge when Anne noticed the dilapidated pickup truck on the opposite side of the road. “Pull over,” she said, “that poor old man needs help.”

  Parris steered the Volvo onto the shoulder and rolled the window down. An aged Indian impassively watched a wisp of steam rise from the pickup radiator. “Got yourself some trouble?”

  “It could use a drink of water,” the old man said.

  Parris found the plastic jug in the Volvo’s trunk and filled the radiator. “Doesn’t seem to be leaking. You should make Tres Piedras without any problem.”

  The old man left Parris at the pickup; he approached the Volvo in a bowlegged gait. He leaned on the door and grinned at Anne. “Watch real close,” he said, presenting an empty right hand.

  She watched with wide eyes.

  The Indian closed his arthritic hand into a gnarled fist. “What would you like?”

  Anne furrowed her brow in mock concentration. “Something nice, I think.”

  He muttered an incantation, then blew on his hand. “How about something good?”

  She flashed her dazzling smile. “That would do nicely.”

  He opened his hand to reveal a flat pink stone suspended on a leather cord.

  “Oh, you’re a magician!”

  “Only part-time.” He winked. “Mostly, I’m a prophet. A minor prophet.”

  “It’s a privilege to meet a prophet. Even from the minor leagues.”

  He chuckled and dropped the pendant into her lap. “This is for you,” he said. “Put it on your neck right now; don’t take it off before you should!”

  So! The man was a peddler of Indian jewelry who used magic tricks and a line of blarney to disarm his customers. Anne fumbled in her purse to find her wallet. “It’s simply beautiful, but I don’t have much cash with me.…”

  “No, no,” the old man said, waving away a handful of greenbacks, “this sort of merchandise can’t be bought with money.” With this pronouncement, he turned abruptly and hobbled back to the pickup. He cranked the engine, released the clutch with a grinding clash of gears, and lurched away toward Tres Piedras.

  Parris slid under the wheel. “That old heap needs a muffler. If he was in my jurisdiction…”

  “I’m sure he’s not,” Anne said. “See my beautiful pendant? It looks like rose quartz.”

  “Uh-huh. What’d the old guy charge you for that bauble?”

  “This kind of bauble,” she said, “can’t be bought with money.”

  As Parris pulled away from the shoulder, he glanced into his rearview mirror. The highway was arrow-straight for miles. “Now that’s peculiar,” he muttered. “How’d he get away so fast in that old Dodge?”

  Anne turned and stared at the empty road behind them. “He’s a magician. Part-time.”

  “Wonder what does he do full-time?”

  Anne was slipping the pendant around her neck. “God only knows,” she whispered.

  * * *

  The sun was near its zenith when Parris found the entrance to the Thorpe Ranch. The sign was freshly painted and the fences along the lane leading to the adobe ranch house were in good repair, but the blue grama looked very sparse to one who had walked in the knee-deep grass on the black loam of the Illinois prairie. He parked the Volvo a respectful distance from the house and asked Anne to wait until he had a chance to break the ice with the Thorpes. He buttoned his coat, partially against the frigid wind and partially because he didn’t want the old man on the front porch to see the shoulder holster, which would immediately suggest cop or gangster.

  A thin, stooped man in a western-cut white shirt, new denim jacket, and faded jeans emerged from the shadows on the L-shaped porch that was attached to the west and the south sides of the house. The rancher pulled his wool-lined jacket more tightly around his shoulders and descended the porch steps. Parris approached and stuck a hand out. “I called yesterday. Scott Parris.”

  The rancher returned the firm grip and nodded toward the house. “Buster’s inside.”

  “Buster?”

  “That’s his nickname. He always said, since he was a little tad, that he was gonna be a champeen broncobuster, so we started calling him Buster way back then.” The old man pushed a hand through his thinning shock of white hair and blinked his hard gray eyes at Parris. “Seems like a long spell ago.”

  Parris tried to smile but couldn’t. “Did he? Become a broncobuster?”

  The rancher pretended to study the storm clouds. “Reckon he did. Fair calf roper and passable bull rider, too. What’s your business with Buster? Is it … trouble?”

  He found it difficult to look at the old man’s weather-worn face. “Afraid so. But I need to see him first, then I’ll tell you everything … if you like.”

  Thorpe clamp
ed a hard hand on Parris’s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. “Understand. Go on inside and get it done with. I’ll go out to the car and visit with the lady.”

  Parris climbed the porch steps and turned the knob on the heavy Mexican door. The young man was standing, arms folded and legs apart, in front of a massive stone fireplace. While the silhouette of his form was clear against the pile of blazing logs, Parris’s eyes had not adjusted from the bright outside light. He could barely see the profile of the young man’s face. But the tension was palpable, a stretched wire ready to snap. The Thorpes knew. How did they know? Did he look and smell that much like a cop?

  It would be best to get it over with in a hurry, then get the hell away from here. He cleared his throat. “I’m Scott Parris. Appreciate the chance to meet with you.”

  The young man turned and nodded, but didn’t offer his hand. He removed a cloth sack of loose tobacco from the pocket in his rawhide vest and proceeded to pour this into a thin piece of paper with a hand that, almost imperceptibly, trembled. “Daddy said you was comin’.”

  Parris hardly knew how to begin. In all his years of police experience, he had not had this duty a half dozen times.

  “You may wish to sit down, Mr. Thorpe.”

  “I’ll stand. Most folks call me Buster.”

  Parris’s vision was adjusting to the light. The cowboy’s face was a page he couldn’t read.

  Buster licked the paper and sealed the cigarette. “You’re a lawman, ain’t you?”

  “Chief of police in Granite Creek. How did you know…?”

  The cowboy placed the homemade cigarette between his lips and searched his pockets for a match. “Daddy said you talked like a policeman when you called. It’s Pris, ain’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “If she was just hurt real bad, you wouldn’t come all the way down here to tell me.”

  “I’m afraid Miss Song is…” Parris couldn’t say it.

  The young man’s voice was hoarse. “Then she’s dead?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The cigarette dangled, unlit, from the cowboy’s thin lips. “How’d she die?”

  Parris tried to speak and the words hung in his throat. He felt like an idiot. Why hadn’t he let the local officials handle this? He cleared his throat and tried again. The single word came in what was little more than a whisper. “Murdered.”

  There was an interminable silence. The young man muttered something unintelligible and stomped out a side door. The sound of his steps was slightly uneven; Buster had a gimpy leg. Standard equipment for rodeo cowboys.

  Parris stepped off the front porch; he squinted at the bright light reflecting off the barren landscape. The old man was leaning against a fence post. Anne had an arm around his shoulders. So she had told him. Parris was exceedingly grateful to her for this service. She was more than lovely. She was wonderful.

  Parris approached slowly, hands in his raincoat pockets. The wind was whipping in from the northwest and it carried the sharp chill of snow. Storms on the high plateau could bring nothing more than sleet pellets that barely covered the ground or they could drop a foot of heavy white stuff. Parris felt as old as the elder Thorpe looked. Small beads of tears clung to the rancher’s sunburned cheeks; they seemed to be strangers there, as if the stern face could not afford the luxury of weeping.

  Parris looked away. “I’ve told your son. Didn’t seem like he was surprised.”

  The old man blew his nose in a handkerchief and stowed this in a hip pocket. He pulled his jacket collar over his thin neck. “He wasn’t. We figured you was the law. Lawmen don’t usually bring good news.”

  The young cowboy appeared unexpectedly. He threw his roll-your-own onto the hard clay and ground it under his boot heel. “Pris always said I should quit smoking these damn things.” He paused. “Tell me how it happened.”

  “I’ll give you the general picture,” Parris said, “but I can’t provide all the details; it could complicate our investigation and prosecution. You understand.”

  The cowboy’s expression said that he didn’t understand, but he let Parris continue. “She was evidently working in the laboratory at the university. Two nights ago, around nine-thirty. Someone entered the room and … and killed her. I’m sure she died quickly.” It was a deliberate lie, but he wasn’t ashamed. The survivors always wanted to hear it.

  Buster was, Parris thought, surprisingly calm. “You know who did it?”

  “We have a suspect.”

  “Somebody she knew?”

  This question surprised Parris. “Probably knew him casually. He’s a repairman; worked for the university. One of our men found him at the scene and he ran. I expect we’ll pick him up in a day or so. Why did you think it might be someone she knew?”

  Buster looked away. “They say it’s usually someone you know. Who kills you.”

  Parris reminded himself that you never knew how they would react. Buster seemed to be rambling. Probably in shock. “Yeah. I guess it usually is.”

  The cowboy held out his hand to display a heavy silver ring with a polished oval sky blue turquoise set in a rough dark stone. “This just came in the mail. Pris sent it for my birthday.”

  Anne touched the ring. “The turquoise is beautiful in the dark setting. It’s really very pretty.”

  Buster didn’t acknowledge the compliment.

  Parris was watching every nuance of expression on the cowboy’s face. “When did you last see her?” he asked.

  “Three or four weeks ago, I guess. Talked to her on the phone … musta been last week.”

  “Was she having any problems?”

  “Nope. Workin’ hard, though. Stayin’ up late at night. Missin’ sleep.”

  Parris tried to sound casual. “What was she working on?”

  “Dunno.” Buster’s expression was grim. “She would tell me, but I didn’t understand much of it.”

  He wondered how much this seemingly backward cowboy really knew. About Priscilla’s work. About a drug ring on campus. “Try to remember,” Parris said. “Anything she said might be important.”

  “Pris talked a lot about crystals and electrons and such. Before she transferred from Arizona over to RMP, she was interested in makin’ better plastics, usin’ corn whiskey for gasoline, you name it.” Buster was squinting his eyes, keeping his face to the north, away from the sunshine. The cowboy’s pupils were slightly dilated. “Then she got this assistantship to work on lightweight armor. I don’t think she cared much about that work, but it paid the rent.”

  Parris opened his mouth but was interrupted by Anne. “Had she had any trouble with anyone at RMP?”

  “Not so far as I know,” the cowboy replied. He was watching the heavy gray clouds build in the northwest. “She didn’t care for some of the folks there, but she never talked about it much.” He grabbed the brim of his Stetson to prevent a sudden gust of wind from lifting it skyward, then turned to study Parris’s face. “You think her work might have had something to do with her … her getting killed?”

  “No,” Parris answered quickly. “Almost certainly not. And don’t worry. We’ll pick the killer up pretty soon. I’ll call you when we do.” He had already turned to leave when he remembered. “Was she … was Priscilla interested in coded messages … that sort of thing?” The question sounded inane.

  Buster’s expression showed a hint of interest in this query. “Not so far as I know.” He paused and Parris could practically hear the wheels turning as the young man considered the relevance of this question. “Why’d you ask?”

  Parris pulled his wallet from his hip pocket and removed a slip of paper from a plastic window. “This was in a computer file she was working on right before … about the time she died. Mean anything to you?”

  Buster cocked his head at the string of characters:

  z f r c y r t

  The cowboy scratched at a tuft of sideburn. “Naw. Might as well be chicken scratchin’s. Is it important?”

  Parris
pocketed the script and shook his head wearily. “Probably not. Where did you meet Priscilla?”

  “At RMP, couple of years ago. I was there when she transferred up from Arizona State.”

  “Were you a physics student, too?”

  “Nope. Majored in electrical engineering.” Buster dropped his gaze to the ground. “Kinda got burned out. Daddy needed some help, so I took a semester off.”

  Buster’s father invited them for lunch. Parris, eager to leave, told the rancher that they had eaten a late breakfast and needed to get back before dark. The snowstorm was moving in and he had no chains for the Volvo. As he slipped a key into the ignition switch, Buster Thorpe leaned on the door and studied Parris’s face earnestly.

  “You don’t have no doubt a’tall about who did it?”

  The policeman tried to match the cowboy’s earnest expression. “Not the least.”

  As the policeman cranked the six-cylinder engine to life, the young man backed away and considered Parris with an expression that was hard to read. “That’s good,” he said, “glad to hear it.”