James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

He had blood on his hands.

For the tenth time in an hour, he washed carefully, using a miniature brush to scrub his knuckles and cuticles. He examined his fingers carefully in the dim light-his hands appeared to be clean but he was certain that traces of blood remained. Patiently, he lathered his hands again with the yellow disinfectant soap and scrubbed with the brush until it seemed that the skin itself might slough off into the basin. He rinsed under the faucet, then dried his hands gently on a soft cotton towel.

As he locked the front door behind him, his thoughts were occupied with a bit of food and early to bed. But first, a walk. A long, quiet walk along the bank of the river. Contemplating his lonely evening, he didn't notice the small figure waiting in the quivering shadow of the willow.

"Hey," she said.

He paused in mid-stride, then leaned forward slightly to get a better look. "Yes?"

Daisy's back was to the street lamp, her face masked in shadow. "Need to talk."

He didn't like the sound of this, but he managed a casual tone. "Want to come inside?"

Daisy considered the dark windows. Like little square eyes in the flat face of the structure. The door was an open mouth. "No," she snapped.

"Well, then," he said, "What'll we talk about?"

The shaman realized that she had not prepared herself for this encounter. How could she say it? "It's about what you've been doing…" She paused, drawing a deep breath, "… to those animals."

He felt a warning premonition chill his blood. He tilted his head and blinked at this unwelcome visitor. "What… exactly," he asked, "do you want?"

She told him.

BURNT CREEK RANCH

POWDERHORN, COLORADO

The ranch foreman did not have cattle on his mind as he steered the battered Jeep pickup between ruts in the gravel road. Toby Aucliffe wasn't even thinking of rain or, more to the point, the lack of rain-the western rancher's eternal preoccupation. Toby, with a stub of a cigar clamped between his nicotine-stained teeth, had a woman on his mind. A particular woman who had skin as pink as a fresh slice of ham, a woman with a voice that was slow and sweet, like thick maple syrup dripping off a stack of hot buttermilk pancakes. Toby enjoyed his food almost as much as his women, and tended to compare and intermingle these two categories of pleasure in an almost seamless fashion. He let up on the accelerator and eased the little truck around a hairpin curve that hugged a deep arroyo.

He smelled the carcass before he saw it.

Toby slammed the pickup door, threw the unlighted cigar onto the gravel road and ground it savagely under his boot heel. Damn cows. Almost as bad as horses. Turn your back, and, just to spite you, they'd fall over deader'n a stone. In his view, the animals got sick or died just to annoy him, to ruin his plans for a Saturday night in town. He hesitated, then stomped across the dry meadow toward the still form in a patch of sage. From the road it looked like a boulder, but the cowman knew every boulder on his turf. This was a purebred Hereford, one of more than six hundred head on the Burnt Creek ranch. As he approached the carcass, he realized that this was a big animal. This was one of the bulls. Toby cursed silently. Purebred Hereford bulls cost serious money. The consortium of Dallas chiropractors who owned the ranch would demand a full report on this one. "A written report, listing all the pertinent details," he muttered aloud, imitating the whining tone of their bespectacled accountant. The barely literate cowman hated accountants almost as much as he hated beeves that croaked for no good reason. Toby cursed again, this time his fury directed toward the rich chiropractors who played at ranching.

When he was within a few feet of the remains, Toby Au-cliffe stopped suddenly, bouncing back like a drunk who had stumbled into a glass door. "Oh no…" He turned away in horror, closing his eyes to blot out the picture of the mutilation. Then, the hard case vomited up his breakfast.

The package arrived at the Granite Creek Police Department by United Parcel Service. Scott Parris read Nancy Beyal's return address; he cut the heavy tape with his pocket knife and unwrapped the brown paper. Inside, he found the paperback romance that the dispatcher had been reading on the day he arrived at the Southern Ute Police Station.

Parris smiled at the teasing note taped to the lurid cover of the Mexican romance novel.

Dear Scott P.:

Thought you might enjoy this on some lonely night when Anne is traveling.

Luv. Nancy B.

His smile vanished as he saw the cover of the paperback. The policeman put his hand into his coat pocket. It was still there. A crumpled copy of the liturgy that veterinarian Harry Schaid had passed out to the mourners at Benita Sweetwa-ter's funeral. He searched the wrinkled surface until he found the words:

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death… De esta suerte, aunge caminase yo por medio de la sombra de la muerte…

Of course.

Emily brushed aside a moist wisp of hair and looked up from the deep furrow where she was planting the Parrot tulip bulbs under precisely eight inches of lightly fertilized soil. Fidel Sombra slammed the truck door and sat down on the edge of the front porch. He removed his new straw hat and scratched at his grizzled head. "Hello, dotter."

Emily wiped the rich soil from her delicate hands. "Good morning, Daddy." She wrinkled her pretty nose and smiled. The old man hadn't bathed in a week; he smelled like his pigs. "I've got some coffee on. Shall I bring you a cup?" Better that he didn't come inside, stink up the house.

"Nope. I've already drunk so much coffee today, it'd squirt out my ears." He had killed a six pack of Mexican beer. The old man removed a sheath knife from his belt and used the curved tip of the gleaming blade to scrape the dirt from under his horny fingernails. "Besides, your coffee ain't worth a sh-I mean, it's altogether too weak for me."

She watched her father and frowned thoughtfully. Instinctively, Emily sensed that something was wrong. Something. But what?

Charlie Moon sat across the booth, having lost interest in a piece of Angel's pecan pie. "I can't make an arrest with nothing to go on but your notion about Aunt Daisy's… uh… vision. It's not evidence."

"But it does fit," Parris said stubbornly.

"I expect," Moon admitted cautiously, "it could have happened that way."

Parris wondered whether the old woman had actually witnessed the mutilation of Arlo Nightbird from her perch on the side of Three Sisters Mesa. Perhaps she rejected the horrible scene from her conscious mind. Then, maybe she slept… and dreamed the vision. A collection of graphic symbols representing the victim and the mutilator. "So what do we do?"

The Ute's face was impassive. "Hoover," he said slowly, "believes Herb Ecker killed and mutilated Gorman's bull. And likewise for Arlo Nightbird. He's closed the case." Moon pushed the pie away; he dipped a spoon into his cup of lukewarm coffee. He stirred. "But maybe I should stir the pot… see what floats to the top."

Canon del Serpiente

Once again, the long finger dipped blood from the ancient depression in the boulder. The finger drew. Now there was a new representation of a human being on the sandstone. This new stick-man kneeled above the earlier figure of the Man of the Book. The scarlet fingertip made many small spots between the figures; they were tears. Kneeling Man wept tears of blood onto Dead Poet. Soon, they would be together.

"I don't see why this couldn't of waited till tomorrow." The old farmer's back ached and he had an overwhelming desire for a drink. A strong drink. Fidel Sombra rubbed a dirty sleeve across his mouth. "A bunch of my pigs got loose last night, and I been chasing the greasy little bastards all over La Plata County, from here to hell and back. I'm awfully tired." He waited in vain for the least bit of sympathy.