Three Sisters (35 page)

Thanks to Charlie Moon and despite the coffee, for the first night since Cassandra Spencer’s death, Scott Parris slept soundly, peacefully. Dreamed sweet dreams. Not so, his Indian friend.

Charlie Moon woke up a dozen times. Whenever he managed to doze off, the Ute would encounter something unpleasant. Like a huge, hairy (big-footed!) creature that lumbered about in the snow, toting a yard-long burrito on each hairy shoulder. Or Clevis Parsley would make an appearance, outfitted in a sequined white tuxedo, a splendid wig of wavy hair, and blue suede shoes, of course. The odd little man would bellow out a few lines of “Heartbreak Hotel,” then recite his tale of “witches” that had caused Andrew Turner to drive his Corvette over the cliff, into the Devil’s Mouth. The Mouth would burp, belch—vomit Turner up, sports car and all. Lick its lips, swallow him again.

Finally, the dawn came. But not like thunder. Like a cold, gunmetal-gray river that flooded Moon’s upstairs bedroom with a current of gloom, and the unhappy realization that he might as well have stayed up all night. The rancher/tribal investigator/deputy sat on the edge of his bed, stared at the floor, then at the door. Thought about it.

Considered alone, the individual pieces of the puzzle were crazy. But looking at the thing as a whole…it was still fairly bizarre. But not entirely so. Fitting the warped fragments together in a particular manner, the final picture almost made sense. Enough to justify taking a long, solitary walk in the wilderness? No. But exercise combined with solitude helps a man clear his mind of worrisome thoughts. And build up a healthy appetite. After a long, restless night, Charlie Moon was not hungry.

After finishing a breakfast that consisted of a cold biscuit (without the help of butter or blackberry jam) and a reheated cup of yesterday’s coffee (well sugared), the tribal investigator drove the oldest of the five Columbine F-150s several dozen miles down the road, through the Spencer estate’s wrought-iron gate, which, by order of the Granite Creek chief of police, had been left unlocked since that snowy evening when Andrew Turner and his Corvette had vanished. Beatrice Spencer, Moon knew, would not be at home. At Cassandra’s funeral, she had confided to the Ute her plans to travel. She planned to go away for a couple of weeks “to get the cobwebs out of my mind.” As he shifted down to second gear and eased the valve-tapping pickup up the long, winding driveway, Moon felt the overpowering presence of the grumbling, cloud-capped mountain. It loomed huge, pregnant with ominous possibilities, bulging with sinister energies—all conceived from a tiny spark, a seed concealed deep inside from before the Beginning.
Just the sort of place where Moses received the stone tablets
.

From somewhere up there, a thunderous rumble.

You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart
.

A flash of fireworks in the cloud crown, then the drumming—

With-all-your-soul…

Another drum-roll—

With-all-your-mind…

From below, an echo—

You shall love your neighbor as yourself.

Charlie Moon felt his lips moving.
You shall not murder.

For perhaps ten heartbeats, the man was totally unaware of his surroundings. And of his
self.
Moon was elsewhere. No to worry—his mortal body operated the motor vehicle with perfect competence.

A shattering crack of thunder—a white-hot flash of lightning!

The spell is broken. The traveler has returned.

Moon remembered nothing of his brief excursion. Or, for that matter, the last hundred yards up the mountain. A pointless detour? No. For all things, there is a purpose.

His uphill journey continued.

On his left, the heavily forested slope rose steeply at first, presenting a smooth, youthful face. With the Ute’s ascent, as if aeons accumulated with altitude, the mountain’s skin became deeply wrinkled by a series of ravines where cold water from crystalline springs seeped from beneath flat, mossy rocks, and shy mule deer grazed in shady glens. Separating these shadowy sanctuaries, rugged granite bluffs rose up to vanish in the morning’s low-hanging, smoky-blue mists. Off to his right, and before he could see it through the scattering of spruce and aspens, Moon could sense the heavy, brooding silence welling up from the depths of the Devil’s Mouth—where Andrew Turner’s corpse was presumably entombed. Macabre images of the body floated in the infinite space of his imagination. Bea’s husband was suspended in a blue, icy gel—frozen in a lonely eternity. But Mr. Moon was not one to dwell upon grim pictures. By sheer force of will, he banished the grisly scene from his thoughts. The unwelcome guest refused to completely leave the premises. The awful vision retreated from the solarium to the musty cellar, where it would settle in with other rubbish—always ready to creep up the stairway, display its horror in the bright light of day.

As Moon approached the accident site, he pulled off the graveled lane, parked the pickup underneath the windswept branches of a lone pine. As he lowered the tailgate, the Columbine hound looked up at the boss, opened his mouth…. “I bet you’d like to go for a walk.” No. Dogs cannot talk. This was the human being speaking.

Sidewinder could yawn and sigh, and so he did both. After which, he rested his graying muzzle between a pair of paws.

Hoping to goad the inert creature into some semblance of animation, Moon assumed a pitying tone: “Poor ol’ fella—I guess you’ve gone a few miles past your prime.”

Another canine yawn.

The poker player upped the ante: “Guess it’s about time I thought about getting another dog.” A thoughtful pause. “A younger mutt, that’s still got some fire in his eye.”

The hound snorted.

“Maybe I should get me a frisky little puppy.”

The dog closed his toothy jaws, then his eyes. Sniffed once. Twice. Slipped off…away into the long-ago canine Dreamtime when neither hound nor poodle yet trotted upon the earth. Sidewinder was a lean, gray shadow, running with other wolves.

Charlie Moon gave up the game. It was time to get down to business. He found the spot where he had stood beside Scott Parris on that frigid morning, did his best to recreate the experience.
Sun was a little ways over the horizon, just like now. I was looking down the road. Breeze was coming from my right, down off the mountain. Just like now.
Like the somnolent hound, he closed his eyes. But Moon was not drowsy. He was recalling.
Me and Scott were talking about breakfast. Scrambled eggs. Buttered blueberry pancakes soaked in maple syrup
. And when his best friend had mentioned the meaty subject, Moon’s famished imagination had conjured up the scrumptious scent of bacon frying. Or had it?

He turned his back on the Devil’s Mouth, gazed up the mountainside.

A bear, so they say, can smell food from miles and miles away. He thought about that folkloric proposition. Considered the pros and cons, came up with a decisive
maybe.
Who knows how well a hungry carnivore can smell—if the wind is right?

The biped carnivore set his sight on the heights, found a convenient ravine, and—one step at a time—began to climb. Before very many minutes had slipped away into the past, he was high above the Spencer driveway and quite out of sight of it—in the depths of the forest. The effect was a familiar one, and thus expected—the farther this son of the People of the Shining Mountains went into the wilderness, the more at home he was. The Ute was in his natural element. At peace with himself. Many happy memories came to call. Like that long-ago time when his father took him into
Cañón del Espíritu
to visit the cave-shelter called Quiet Shade House, where the Old Ones had pecked out sketches of real and imaginary beasts on smoke-encrusted walls.
Dad and me had a picnic. Spam sandwiches with mustard. Black coffee. Ginger Snaps. Those were good times.

This pleasant walk into the wildwoods was just the sort of refreshment Mr. Moon needed. But perhaps—and this is not meant as a criticism—he should have been paying more attention.

From within gloomy glades of blackish blue spruce, here and there amidst the clusters of yellowed ferns, and between the knees of those skeleton’s legs posing as alabaster aspen trunks, several pairs of eyes watch the man. Most of these forest dwellers are merely curious, a few are alarmed by the brash intruder’s invasion. But though quite important in their own right, this multitude of watchers is of no particular concern—they constitute an audience, whom—whether they applaud or hiss—shall have no effect upon the outcome of Act One.

Ah, but what about this toothy fellow who follows?

Look—the brute pauses, sniffs, laps up a quick drink from the brook, lopes along again with that wild, hungry glint in his eye that reveals the unspoken thought: I could eat a bucket of raw liver! Two buckets!

What—this sinister menace chills you—grips the mind with that nameless horror—causes the stomach to churn, the heart to palpitate? Enough is enough, you say—ease up on the grisly stuff?

Very well. Consider it done.

We shall forgo any mention of the far more dangerous creature that stalks Charlie Moon—that massive, hairy, odorous, blood-soaked—Oops. That slipped out.

Pretend you never heard it.

Charlie Moon was, as the saying goes, following his nose. Like a bloodhound on a scent, up the forested mountain he went, crossed a gurgling yard-wide stream in a single stride, encountered a deer path that lured him up a rocky slope, around a chocolate-and-vanilla outcropping that was iced between layers with a thick vein of pinkish white quartz. Almost certainly, gold-bearing quartz. After taking note of this interesting finding, the potential prospector continued along a faint trail that meandered pleasantly through a patch of wild roses, then edged more cautiously along the precipitous face of a crumbling granite bluff. The Ute paused to inspect week-old cougar tracks in the dusty shelter of a mossy overhang, then continued along the enticing path through a shadow-streaked thicket of spruce, pines, and bloodberry vines. With an almost startling suddenness, the hiker emerged into the sunshine of a small, saddle-shaped meadow that was populated by a few sturdy ponderosa and dozens of massive, lichen-encrusted boulders. On the far side of this open spot, the broad shoulder of the mountain was split by a narrow box canyon, whose rain-streaked walls soared at least three hundred feet to approach that rarefied altitude where summer was a total stranger, and trees refused to grow. The canyon’s triangular floor started out wide at the entrance, gradually narrowed to a blunt point on the far end, where some not-very-expert builder had constructed a crude shack from a clutter of warped, unpainted planks, rough sawmill slabs, undressed pine and aspen logs. Topside, a rusty patchwork of corrugated steel panels was held down with large stones—presumably to prevent gusty west winds from carrying the crude roof away to Kansas. There was no proper door, but hanging limply over a hole in the wall was a drapery that might have been either a tattered blanket or an untanned animal hide. Jutting from a spot where the rough-and-ready roof almost joined the makeshift wall was a long, crooked cylinder, which Moon rightly guessed to be a rusty automobile exhaust pipe. A thin wisp of smoke drifted up from the improvised chimney.

The tribal investigator shoved cold hands into his jacket pockets.
Looks like someone’s at home
.

Well…yes. And no. Yea and nay at the same time. Confusing? Impossible? Such is the way of physical reality. The question of whether the home was occupied or not was only vaguely similar to what a quantum mechanic would refer to as a “mixed state.” And like us all, Moon was closely entangled with his prior assumptions. The issue shall remain undetermined until this conscious entity, who tends to see things with his own particular spin—makes a direct observation.

And speaking of observations—our keenly conscious entity has picked up the scent of strong coffee, also the delectable aroma of sizzling meat. But on this occasion, it was not bacon frying. Charlie Moon’s well-trained nostrils took another sniff.
Could be roast pork.
But way up here on the mountain, where would a squatter find a pig? His nose began to have second thoughts.
More likely, it’s venison. Or wild turkey.
As his nasal nerve center was attempting to decide, the hopeful gourmet experienced a sudden hunger pang.
In a lonesome place like this, I expect some company might be welcome.

This assumption, as will become apparent, was somewhat optimistic.

No, that is unwarranted understatement. Wishful thinking is what it was.

In preparation for taking that first step, which would lead him to yon cabin in the far end of the box canyon, Moon had just lifted his foot off the grassy turf—when he smelled something else. Like wild onions. With just a touch of garlic. And fresh blood.

“Hhhnnngh!”

This remark had originated behind him. Having stopped in midair, the Ute’s boot settled oh-so-slowly back to earth. The lawman’s intuitive antenna was instantly operating at maximum sensitivity. The signal received was DANGER. This headline was followed by: Do Not Turn Around, Do Not Move a Muscle, Do Not Say a Word, Et cetera.

“Hhhnnngh!”

As a chilly prickle jiggered up along his spine and down again, and he considered what this presence might be, Charlie Moon (having limited data) reached these preliminary conclusions:

1. If this is an animal, I can’t imagine what kind.
   
2. If it’s human, the fellow’s vocabulary is limited.
   
3. Any fella who lives out in the woods is likely to be armed.
   
4. I’d better not do anything to make him nervous.
   

Onto a flat rock—
phhllaaat!
(
Whatever it was had
spat.)

He must have just been clearing his throat.
Though his face could not be seen by the spitter, Moon put on his me-not-your-enemy smile, inhaled a breath of crisp, high-country air, exhaled these words: “Good morning.”

“Turn yersef aroun’. Slow-like.”

He’s itching for a fight
. Ready to accommodate, the Ute rotated, slow-like, counterclockwise as seen from above, and as he did the Ruger pistol appeared in his hand. Yes, fully loaded with potent ammunition.

Now, Mr. Moon was not a man who startled easily. That last time he’d felt his whole body go cold as ice was several years back, when a mean-spirited cretin had stashed an umpteen-foot long diamondback rattlesnake in the cab of his pickup, and while the Ute was driving along without a care in the world, the thing had slithered under the driver’s seat and raised its evil countenance knee-high, to look Moon right in the eye. While wickedly flicking the forked tongue. On that memorable occasion, he had driven the pickup off the highway, and when a well-meaning but certifiably insane GCPD cop showed up and announced his plan to shoot the snake in the head (which was practically resting on Moon’s crotch), the Ute had resorted to drastic measures that will not be reported herein; this is now, that was then. Now, what he saw caused Charlie Moon to drop his jaw.
Great Day in the Morning—it’s Bigfoot in the flesh!

In a manner of speaking, yes. The feet were size 16, the mass of flesh amounted to about 340 pounds. The broad face perched atop the immense torso was half obscured by a tangled mat of jet-black hair. This was not what caused the jaw to drop. What unhinged the mandible was the fashion statement. The buffalo-shouldered creature was draped in a skin of a mature grizzly. The bear’s snout rested on the top the of the humanoid’s head, staring at the Ute through dead eyes. The arms and legs of the bearskin served as “Bigfoot’s” sleeves and breeches, the long claws laid over the living fingers and toes. The whole thing was a couple of notches beyond bizarre. But as Moon’s mind processed the data, it was beginning to make sense.
This has got to be what Scott saw crossing the Spencer driveway in the snow.
Today, the “big burrito” on its shoulder was a field-dressed deer, dripping still-warm blood. For those who care about such details, the fresh kill was an eight-point buck.

Moon noticed another, more significant element.

The formidable hunter was toting a wicked-looking crossbow. A bolt-filled quiver hung from a cougar-tail belt. More to the point, the bolt mounted in the aforesaid crossbow was aimed at a location approximately three centimeters (1.18 inches) above Moon’s six-ounce sterling-silver belt buckle, which he had been awarded for coming in second at the 1992 Ignacio Indian Rodeo bull-riding event. He would, his friends insisted, have come in first if (the week before) he had not gotten into that nasty fight with Carlos “Iron Man” Martinez, and broken a collarbone (his own).

“Hhhnnngh!”

Sounds like he’s going to spit again.

Wrong. Swallowed. Yes, this is revolting. There are occasions when even the least detail must be communicated. This is not one of them. This is
gratuitously
disgusting.

The Ute thought it advisable to make another attempt at friendly conversation: “Mr. Bigfoot…”
Uh-oh
.

Uh-oh is right.

The homely face scowled. Even the bear’s head frowned. “Wattid you say?”

“Well, what I
meant
to say was—”

“You called me
Mister
!” This perfectly correct observation was heavy with indignation. Righteous indignation.

Moon was trying hard to get a handle on this.
Maybe he’s got a PhD.
What with pass-fail replacing conventional grading, Internet diploma mills, and who knows what other academic innovations that had been driving the dumbing-down in American education, you couldn’t tell who might have a sheepskin tucked away in his hip pocket. “Why don’t we introduce ourselves.” Having recovered from the drooped-jaw syndrome, the Ute attempted to retrieve the smile. “I’m Charlie Moon.”

The little eyes glinted.
I know who you are
.

“Uh—who might you be?”

The hairy person responded gruffly: “Bobbie.”

Moon might have offered to shake the big mitt but his right hand was filled with .357 Magnum revolver, which was aimed at the massive person’s center of gravity. “Well, sir—I’m glad to meet you.” This statement was not entirely factual—but even a scrupulously honest man may occasionally find himself in circumstances where good manners and an instinct for physical survival take priority over strict veracity.

The crossbow had not wavered. As if Moon’s pistol did not exist, the banana-size finger twitched on the trigger. “I’m Bobbie
Sue
!”

Moon was familiar with the Johnny Cash song, but from one clue and another concluded that this was not some fellow whose mean daddy had given him a girl’s name. “Well, ma’am, it’s always a pleasure to meet a lady”—he pointed the pistol barrel at her lethal weapon—“who owns a really fine crossbow. I’m betting you made it yourself.”

The big hairy person uttered a guttural sound that might have been evidence of ill temper or acute dyspepsia.

Pride of ownership evidently not being a cleft in her armor, he asked, “Does it have a safety?”

Bobbie Sue’s face bottomed off at a tight-lipped mouth, which curled into a thin, half-wit’s grin. “Huh-uh.” A chuckle gurgled up from somewhere deep inside. “But hit’s got a hair trigger.” The smile flipped upside down. “An’ I got a tetchy trigger finger.”

Moon was about to describe the merits of his weapon, when he was interrupted by another—

“Hhhnnngh!”

On this occasion, neither a spit nor a swallow. Do not think about it.

Charlie Moon didn’t. The man had more urgent issues to consider. Like the alarming hallucination he was attempting to deal with, and without notable success. What had happened to dull the Ute’s characteristic razor-sharp wit? Several possibilities come to mind. Because he had not had a proper breakfast, the cause might have been low blood sugar. Or perhaps this bizarre encounter had unhinged Moon’s mind. Whatever the matter was, and it might have been a combination of the above—he was
certain
that he could see a finely drawn, perfectly straight line emanating from the flint tip of the crossbow’s feathered bolt. This two-dimensional thread connected dead-center with the third button from the bottom of his shirt, passed through his naval and various indispensable abdominal organs to dissect his spine between the second and third lumbar vertebrae. This causing the potential target some concern, he made this reasonable observation: “That thing might go off.”

“Hit might.” Bobbie S. cackled another laugh. “So might your pistol.”

Fair enough. Deescalation was called for. “Tell you what—you point your crossbow at the ground, I’ll do the same with my sidearm.”

The long-haired hunter shook her shaggy mane, the deceased griz did the same.

“D’you mind if I ask why not?”

“Hits ’cause you’re a…a…” The ogre face twisted into a painful grimace. What was the word? It came to her. “You’re a damn
traspesser
. So I got all the right in the worl’ to pull the trigger and pin you to a tree—jus’ like you was a…a…” Came to her again: “Like you was a doodlebug!” She appended this with a cheerful “Heh-heh.”

“You telling me this is your land?”

A nod from both heads. “My daddy was a hard-rock miner, and he squatted here for almos’ forty years.” She jerked a thumb to indicate the ramshackle cabin at the end of the box canyon. “An’ now it’s all mine. I got me a cookstove and a hand-crank radio.”

“Good for you.” The trespasser waggled the pistol barrel at the crossbow. “Now lay that thing down on the ground.”

This stern command surprised Bobbie Sue. Her “Huh-uh” was a tad on the uncertain side.

“If you don’t, I’ll shoot you right between the eyes.” On second thought, that was a small target. The eyes were remarkably close together.

“I been shot before. Bullets don’ skeer me none.”

Cannons probably don’t skeer you none
. “Then I’ll give you another reason. Sidewinder is about to put the bite on you.”

She snorted. “I ain’t askeered a no snake that ever lived.” The gourmet patted an ample belly. “Whenever I can ketch me a fat one, I eats ’im for breakfast.”

Moon did not doubt the claim. “I didn’t say sidewinder, I said
Sidewinder.
”

Bobbie Sue’s expression suggested that she required further clarification.

Moon provided it: “Sidewinder’s my hound, and he’s about one jump behind you. I say the word, he’ll be all over you like ugly on ape.”
I wish I hadn’t said it exactly like that.

Bobbie Sue took no offense. “Is there really a dog behin’ me?”

“Take a look.”

She looked over the shoulder that was not burdened by an eviscerated deer corpse, saw the beast with hair bristling on his neck, sneered at that
toothy fellow
who had followed Moon up the mountain. “I ain’t askeered a no mutt, neither. Roasted dog is almos’ as good as fried snake meat.” While her head was half turned, and as she licked her lips at the savory memory of past feasts—

Moon grabbed the crossbow around the feathered projectile, snatched it from her hand!

She turned to glare at the brazen man, inhaled to expand the barrel chest, roared, “Hhhnnngh!”

“You spit on me—I’ll shoot you dead.” He sounded like he meant it.

Behind her, the Columbine hound growled a throaty threat. Sidewinder never bluffed.