The Witch's Tongue (14 page)

The hired gun looked the chairman straight in the eye. “Oscar, you are not paying me half enough to take all this guff.” Moon removed a small leather wallet from his shirt pocket. “If you would like to have my badge, just say the word.”

The chairman looked as if he were about to have a cardiac seizure, apoplectic fit, and major anxiety attack all rolled into one. “What would I do with your badge?”

“I am sorely tempted to tell you.”

For a painful moment, the tribal investigator’s part-time job teetered on the brink. Finally, the chairman blinked. “Oh, don’t be so touchy. Soon as you have the time to spare, handle this business any way you want.”

Moon returned the badge to his pocket. “I will take that as a heart-felt apology.”

Oscar Sweetwater had an acidic reply on the tip of his tongue, wisely decided to swallow it.

Not wanting to depart on a sour note, Charlie Moon thought he would sweeten things up with a dash of whimsy. “There’s one last thing.” The tall man put the black Stetson on his head, hesitated as if this was a difficult subject to bring up. “It’s about a matter of professional pride.”

Oscar Sweetwater never knew what to expect from this mercurial employee. “What?”

“I know it’ll sound downright petty. But you have one, with your name on it. And so does Wallace Whitehorse.” Charlie Moon looked out the window, to the spot where the big F-350 gleamed redly in the sun. “A tribal investigator should have a reserved parking space.”

The chairman leaned on the desk, hands clenched over his face. “Please, Charlie—just go away and let me be.”

After several miles on a bad road that got worse with every jarring minute, Charlie Moon slowed the red pickup to a growling crawl, steered around a crater that appeared to be the result of either hostile mortar fire or a recent meteor impact. At a point where the road was petering off into a week-choked, boulder-strewn trail, he spotted a dented steel mailbox fixed to a fence post. The owner of the receptacle had used a Magic Marker to inscribe his name on it:
E GANADO
.

The rusty flag on the box looked as if decades had passed since it had been raised to announce the arrival of incoming mail.

Moon nosed the F-350 onto a narrow dirt lane that snaked through a drab little apple orchard. Scrawny limbs reached out to scratch at the truck. A fat raccoon waddled across the driveway, its rump disappearing into a clump of huckleberry bushes.

Eddie Ganado’s rickety old house was hunkered down on a scrubby clearing between the orchard and a large bean field. The front windows of the rented home had no curtains, and the sun-yellowed shades were pulled more than halfway down, leaving the impression of sullen, heavy-lidded eyes—as if the derelict building had woken up with a bad hangover and wished to be left alone. The yard was dotted with a variety of hardy bushes that had sprouted from seeds sown by the winds—and a single, lonely, anemic-looking elm. An aluminum-paneled garage was set near the north side of the modest dwelling. Much farther from the house, a rusty-roofed barn leaned precariously, seemingly supported by a capricious enchantment that might be withdrawn at any moment.

The only sight to please the eye was Ganado’s yellow Pontiac. But even this product of Detroit’s glory days had lost its sheen. Parked under a fanlike branch of the elm, the sleek convertible was spotted from occasional spitting rains and intermittent dust-laden winds. Above the classic automobile, parched leaves chattered inanely with the breeze. Moon wondered whether the tribal chairman, who had rented the dismal property to Ganado, was looking for an excuse to evict him.

Having heard the pickup coming when it was almost a mile away, Eduardo Ganado stood at a window, waiting to see who his visitor would be—hoping it was not that person he least wanted to see.

Charlie Moon pulled to a stop behind the Pontiac, waited. After a full minute, he saw the door on the front porch open. Eddie Ganado emerged, a pump shotgun resting easily in the crook of his arm. Wondering what the eccentric Navajo was afraid of, Moon got out of the pickup. As he approached the porch, he instinctively crooked his elbow, placing his right hand a couple of inches closer to the .357 Magnum revolver strapped onto his hip.

This subtle move was not lost on the Navajo, who kept a wary eye on the tall Ute.

Charlie Moon smiled as he broke the silence: “You’re well armed, Eddie.”

“Thought I heard a prowler last night.” He hesitated, then leaned the shotgun against a dilapidated chair. “Prob’ly just a bear, rustling around in my trash barrel.”

Moon allowed his arm to straighten out by his side.

The cuts on Eddie’s face were almost healed, but the small, circular white scars remained like a persistent pox. The bandages on his head had been replaced with a patch of dirty gauze secured with a piece of duct tape. “How’s your scalp coming along?”

“Okay.” Ganado limped a few steps, reached out to pump the visitor’s hand. “When I got tired of paying twenty dollars a pop to that nurse at the clinic, I started doctorin’ myself.”

From habit, the lawman scanned the shabby grounds. No sign of a dog. A pane in a loft window was cracked. The steel roof was rusted in several spots. A shiny new television antenna was mounted on a sandstone-and-cement chimney. A cord of firewood—all cottonwood logs—was stacked neatly against the side of the garage. It was not nearly enough for the long winter, and there was no propane tank in sight. “How long you been living here?”

“Almost three years now.” Ganado’s dark eyes followed the Ute’s gaze with a curious, almost surprised expression, as if he were examining the rental property for the first time. He tried to think of a compliment to apply to this seedy estate. “It’s quiet.” He made a sideways nod. “Come on inside—I’ll get you a cold brew.” And then he remembered whom he was talking to. “Or a soft drink.”

“Thanks anyway.” Moon hitched his thumbs in his belt. “I won’t be here that long.”

“This a social call?” Ganado sounded hopeful.

“Wish it was. The chairman sent me out here to have a few words with you.”

“What for? I ain’t behind in my rent.”

“This is not about your rent.” Moon looked up at the thirsty elm, decided he might as well have some fun. “It’s a legal matter.” He paused to let that sink in.

It did. And hit bottom. “About what?”

“Eddie, you have attempted to influence a witness to a criminal offense.”

“Says who?”

“Says me. You tried to talk me into lying about what I saw when Felix Navarone jumped out of that tree and assaulted Officer Wolfe.”

“No I didn’t, all I did was—”

“If your employer decides to sue the tribe over Navarone’s arrest, I’ll have to get on the stand and tell the whole truth and nothing but.”

“Look, Charlie—I was just doing my job for that lawyer. I didn’t mean to suggest that you should say somethin’ that wasn’t true.” His voice took on a whining tone. “Let’s talk about this—maybe there’s some way we can work it out.”

“Under the circumstances,” the tribal investigator said, “it is hard for me to do any serious talking.”

Ganado’s broad face mirrored his puzzlement.

“Before I can carry on a serious conversation,” Moon explained, “I need to put my foot up on something.” He looked around. “Like a sawhorse, a tree stump, or a keg of nails.”

The Navajo stared at the eccentric Ute. “I don’t have no sawhorse or nail keg—but I got a stump out back of the house.”

Moon was cheered by this news. “Then let’s go to it.”

He followed the limping man through a space between the house and the garage.

Ganado pointed at a crumbly stump.

The Ute made a close examination. “I don’t mean to be overly critical, Eddie—but this is not a good talking stump. It’s sawed off too close to the ground, and it’s rotten old cottonwood.”

Moon’s host wished it to be known that he was not responsible for this deficiency in his hospitality. “That stump was here when I rented the place from Oscar Sweetwater—and it was rotten then.”

“I was hoping for a pine stump.” With undisguised disappointment, the tribal investigator kicked at the offensive wooden corpse.

Ganado’s tone took on an edge. “Well, I’m sorry as I can be, but that’s the only stump I got.”
Grandma was right—all these Utes have a crazy streak
.

Moon took a look at the lay of the land, pointed to a gasoline-powered irrigation pump at the edge of a ten-acre bean field. “I’ll give that a try.”

Relieved, the Navajo followed the Ute to the substitute for a stump.

Moon rested his boot on the pump. “These your soybeans, Eddie?”

Ganado seemed mildly amused by the notion. “Nah. Oscar Sweetwater leases this field out to one of them stiff-necked Mormon farmers down by Arboles.”

The tribal investigator made a small probe: “So how’s your job going?”

“Oh, okay I guess. But I don’t expect I’ll stay there much longer.” With minimal effort, he made an ugly face. “That lawyer wants me to take a class at the university—learn how to use a computer.” To demonstrate his contempt for such a fool idea, he spat on a dusty bean plant.

“And you’d rather be a full-time unemployed person.”

A listless shrug. “Till something better comes along.”

Realizing that a subtle approach would be wasted on Ganado, Moon cut right to the bone: “Does that Apache’s lawyer really think she can make trouble for the tribe?”

“Hey, she don’t tell me nothing.” Ganado hesitated. “But I think she’s like to cut a deal to get Mr. Navarone sprung.” He kicked at a clod of dirt. “Mr. Navarone says that white SUPD cop shook him outta the tree—and would’ve killed him if those state cops hadn’t pulled him off.”

The tribal investigator studied the irrigation-pump motor as if the rusty machinery held a special fascination. “On the way here, I stopped off at the junction of Route 160 and 151. Which is where Felix Navarone bailed out of his pickup, ran from the state cop, and climbed the tree.”

Eduardo Ganado ran his hand through his mangled mat of hair, laughed. “That Felix—he always was kinda excitable.”

Felix?
This use of the Apache’s first name surprised Moon. Up to now the jailbird had simply been “Mr. Navarone” to Ganado. “You knew the Apache before he was jailed?”

The Navajo squinted at the bean field. “Sure. That’s what makes me so useful to the law firm. Within a coupla hundred miles, there ain’t a dozen people worth knowing that I don’t know. I can tell you the names of their kids. And dogs.” He hurried on. “And I know lots of other stuff that comes in handy in the lawyer business.”

Moon gave the man an appraising look. “What do you know about pi?”

Ganado blinked at the Ute. “What kinda pie?”

“The diametric kind.” Moon put a hand into his jacket pocket, produced a paper tape measure. “That tree Navarone climbed has a nice round trunk that’s thirty-one and a half inches around, which makes it ten inches in diameter. Give or take a smidgen.”

Ganado continued to stare at the calculating man.

“That Apache climbed a sturdy tree. Even if he’d had a half-dozen state troopers helping him, Officer Wolfe couldn’t have shook it hard enough to make one of last year’s dead leaves fall off a branch. Let alone Felix Navarone, who was holding on like a leech—until he made up his mind to let go and jump on a trusted employee of the Southern Ute Police Department. Which amounts to deliberate physical assault on a sworn officer of the law.”

Ganado performed his characteristic shrug, indicating that it mattered not to him whether Felix Navarone had jumped or fallen, or whether he ever got out of jail.

“And besides myself and the state police, there are some other witnesses that saw what happened.” Charlie Moon watched the Navajo’s flat black eyes. “There were quite a lot of travelers stopped on the highway, gawking at the show. And lots of tourists carry cameras with them. Maybe one of ’em took a snapshot that’ll show Navarone jumping off the tree limb.”

Ganado’s face expressed his acute disinterest in picture-taking tourists.

Well, that’s that
. “Eddie, I’m going to offer you some sound advice.” He watched Ganado’s jaw muscles go taut. “Don’t get on the wrong side of Oscar Sweetwater. The tribal chairman is a contrary old man. And he’ll always find a way get even with a fella who crosses him.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He looked pointedly at Moon’s red pickup.

Moon took the measure of his shadow, which stretched two yards from his boots. “Guess I’d better be rolling on down the road.”

Eduardo Ganado did nothing to delay his guest’s departure.

THE SECRET SIN

DAISY PERIKA
performed the secret ritual once every twenty-four hours, always at the appointed time. The marginal Catholic would wait until her home had fallen into the deep trough of night. In the darkness, it seemed less likely that God would notice what she was up to. He would be busy keeping track of those millions of Chinese on the sunny side of the world.

After making certain that the windows were tightly curtained, the aged woman would take the black shoe box from the kitchen cabinet, put it on the dining table, and remove the lid. Among the potions and herbs and odds and ends and this and that was the object of her special affection. Hands trembling, Daisy would withdraw the K’os Largo horned-star pendant that she had
liberated
from SUPD officer Jim Wolfe.

This midnight was much like the others.

Daisy alternately gazed at the lump of turquoise, pressed it against her wrinkled face, imagined how she would use the magic in the stone to find lost objects, heal deadly diseases—even see through that heavy veil that cloaks the future from the eyes of ordinary mortals. The shaman could
feel
the power in the silver-marbled stone. She also felt something else—a nagging sting of guilt.

The tough old warrior struggled valiantly with her conscience. Daisy’s weapons were a characteristic stubbornness combined with an inventive flair to rationalize her banal theft into an act of unparalleled virtue. After all, it was not like this pendant had actually belonged to that silly white man. Those
matukach
think they can buy anything with money, but the People know it isn’t so. The treasure had once belonged to Hasteen K’os Largo, but the Navajo medicine man was dead and gone. Daisy assured herself that if she knew who K’os Largo’s grandchildren were, she would certainly return the precious object to them. The tribal elder piously imagined a simple ceremony down at Window Rock, where she would present the horned star to the dead man’s grateful descendants. She would make a brief but stirring speech about how the Utes and Navajos should forget past disputes and work harder to get along.

But that ugly old Navajo man probably never did find himself a woman who’d give him any children. So until I hear he’s got some family still alive, it’s up to me to take good care of his property
.