Snake Dreams (8 page)

Watching the girl go (from the corner of her eye), the tribal elder called out, “When you get up in the morning, don’t forget to put on that pretty blue dress I made for you.”

“I won’t forget.” Sarah smiled. Charlie Moon was coming and she intended to look her very best.

“And your new black shoes.”

AFTER THE
girl had snuggled into her bed, Daisy Perika picked up the cordless telephone and began to rock back and forth.
Creakity-squeak
went the chair.
Poppity-snap
went the piñon
logs in the fireplace.
Tickity-tock
went the old wind-up alarm clock.

How she does it is a mystery. But from time to time, the old woman
knows
the phone is going to ring. If you asked her, Daisy would tell you who was on the other end of the line and she’d be right eight times out of nine.

Brrrriiing.
She slipped the instrument under a wisp of gray hair. “Hello, Charlie.”

The voice in her ear echoed the greeting, asked how she was getting along.

“If you don’t want to hear an hour-long organ recital, don’t ask.” She waited until his laughter had subsided. “So let’s talk about our plans for tomorrow.”

“A-hmm.” (That was Charlie Moon clearing his throat.)

Daisy:
I don’t like the sound of that.

“Uh . . . something’s come up. I got a call from Lila Mae a few minutes ago.”

I should’ve known.
“Oh you did, did you.”

“She’ll arrive at the Colorado Springs airport tomorrow.”

“And she expects you to come pick her up.”

“She said not to bother, she’d rent a car, but—”

“But you said, ‘Don’t you rent a car, sweetie pie—I’ll be there when you show up.’ ”

“More or less.”

“Well, that sure messes things up.”
Of all the big gourd heads in the whole world, Charlie Moon takes the cake.

“Everything will work out fine.” Moon smiled at his mental image of the irascible auntie. “Jerome Kydmann will come to get you and Sarah.”

In Daisy’s opinion, of all the slack-jawed cowhands on the Columbine, the Wyoming Kyd was the best of a sorry lot. The tribal elder secretly liked the intelligent young man. But never one to pass up an opportunity to punish her nephew, Dr. Daisy searched her dusty pharmacy, found a black little bottle labeled
EXTRACT OF GUILT
, expertly injected a stiff dose via the telephone connection. “For weeks now—that sweet little girl’s been looking forward to seeing
you
.”

Having developed a tolerable immunity to this toxin, Moon responded in the amiable tone that annoyed his relative, “That’s nice to know. I’m looking forward to seeing the kid.”

Daisy managed to detect something vaguely like a put-down in the reply.
He’s looking forward to seeing Sarah, but not me.

“So, are you two all packed to come spend some prime time at the Columbine?”

“Sure.”
And now he’ll ask me a whole bunch of questions, just to make sure I haven’t forgot anything. And he’ll remind me to turn off the well pump and the propane valve and all that other stuff.

Moon asked his aunt a whole bunch of questions. Just to make sure that she had not forgotten anything. He also reminded her to turn off the well pump and the propane valve. And all that other stuff.

As the conversation gradually wound down, Daisy was playing with the notion of mentioning Chiquita Yazzi and suggesting that her nephew convince the Texas State Police to go looking for the missing woman’s corpse. Charlie, who used to work for the Southern Ute Police Department, had cop buddies all over the Southwest. Not only that, the big-shot tribal investigator’s best friend was Scott Parris, who was chief of police in Granite Creek, which town (about forty miles or so this side of the Columbine Ranch) was where Nancy lived with her mean-to-the-bone stepfather. By the time Daisy had mulled this over for about two seconds, Charlie Moon—who assumed that his elderly relative was getting sleepy—said “Good night, Aunt Daisy.”

THAT NIGHT
, one member of Daisy’s household slept in perfect peace. Mr. Zig-Zag.

Tired to the bone, Daisy Perika slept like a stone. But not a
peaceful
stone.

Sarah Frank? The girl would enjoy a few minutes of heavenly
slumbers, in which the bright star of her dreams was invariably the same tall, lean, dark man, who was deeply in love with his new bride—who (in these nighttime fantasies) was much prettier than that aged “FBI woman.” Sad to say, soul-chilling nightmares would shoulder their way in between these blissful interludes. In the worst of the lot, a huge, hairy-armed Hermann Wetzel would slit his wife’s throat with a razor—or beat his screaming stepdaughter with his fists. Inevitably, the sweet dreams were abbreviated, then faded altogether, and the terrible ones dominated the girl’s fitful sleep. To flee from bloody murders and brutal assaults, Sarah opened her eyes long before daylight, determined to wait out the dark night. Over and over, she whispered this consoling mantra: “Charlie Moon will be here today—and take me to the Columbine.” Then, everything would be fine.

Sarah dared not close her eyes, lest the horrible night-visions begin all over again. But you know what she did. Sarah yawned, drifted off into dreamland for more of the same. Except that Mr. Wetzel had traded the straight razor for a butcher knife.

Sarah’s Extraordinary Adventure

Not an exaggeration.

Before this day was over, her bizarre encounter with the “talking gingerroot” would seem like a commonplace event—a big yawn. Which, by coincidence, was how the sleepy girl would greet the dawn. While nothing would seem particularly wrong, neither would things feel quite right. This was to be one of those peculiar awakenings where it is difficult to tell where dreaming ends and reality begins.

Sarah Frank’s very special day bloomed from the prickly stem of night with a gray, sickly facsimile of light that scuttered under the curtains, and like a shroud searching for something dead that needed wrapping, went creeping across the bed where she was half napping. A chill, funereal breeze moaned dreadfully in the eaves, rattled dry cottonwood leaves, set a woody finger to tap-tapping upon the windowpane.

Otherwise, things started off just fine.

WEARIED BY
her lurid dreams and wary of what awakening might bring, the frail little girl shivered and shuddered under the covers, pulled the hand-stitched quilt to her chin, kept her eyes closed tightly.
If I keep very still and think nice thoughts, I’ll get cozy and warm.
The nicest thought of all:
Before long,
Charlie Moon will show up in his big car to take me and Daisy and Mr. Zig-Zag to the Columbine.
A distant second:
A hot breakfast of eggs and biscuits.
Fleshing it out, Sarah imagined crispy bacon sizzling alongside plump sausage patties in Daisy Perika’s black iron skillet. A big stack of pancakes soaked in syrup thick enough to snare a bumblebee. A steaming mug of black coffee, very sweet—just the way Charlie liked it. Her first sigh of the day.
Charlie Moon.
Having come full circle to the object of her affections, the youthful optimist managed a wan smile.
If I keep really still and think nice—

Bang-bang
on her bedroom door. “Up and at ’em!” Daisy yelled. “Wa-hoo!” As an afterthought, she added, “Tippecanoe and Tyler Too!”
Whatever that means.

Sarah bounded out of bed, slipped into her pretty blue dress, pulled on a pair of socks and the brand-new black shoes, and admired herself in the mirror. Almost shrieked at the sight of the wild-girl image that stared back at her, hurriedly ran a comb through her long, black hair.

Breakfast was lumpy oatmeal, warmed-over biscuits, and a glass of outdated milk that left a slightly sour taste on her tongue.

There was no indication that Aunt Daisy realized what an important day this was, but Sarah was neither surprised nor dismayed. An elderly woman who sometimes had trouble remembering what
month
it was, and didn’t give a hoot about Labor Day or Halloween or when Daylight Saving Time kicked in or kicked out, could hardly be expected to pick up on the teenager’s pent-up excitement. And it really didn’t matter. Before long, Charlie Moon would pull up in his Expedition with the blue-and-white Columbine logo on the door.

Daisy Perika—who did realize how important this day was to her youthful companion—decided that the bad news could wait.

After breakfast, Sarah leaned on the front windowsill and watched for his arrival.
He’ll be here any minute now.
Minutes passed like snails going uphill. Old, feeble snails carrying big suitcases filled with rocks.

Poor little thing.
Daisy was just about to open her mouth and tell Poor Little Thing that Charlie would be sending Mr. Kydmann.
But if I do, then she’ll ask me, “But why isn’t Charlie coming?” And then I’ll have to tell her: “Because the big gourd head’s going to the airport to pick up Miss Pretty Two-Shoes and then Sarah’ll get all teary-eyed and go off to her bedroom and cry and cry like she didn’t have a friend in the whole world and would just as soon die here and now and I’ll have to go knock on her door and say, “Don’t worry so much about Charlie Moon. He’s not all that special. . . .”

But he was, of course. Daisy knew that her nephew was one in a million or whatever big number anyone cared to mention. The old woman set her jaw firmly enough to crack a walnut between the molars. Exercised the gray matter. Looked at things this way and that. Came up with a solution to the current difficulty. Passing the buck, of course.
I’ll just let Kydmann answer Sarah’s questions about why Charlie didn’t come.
Which reminded her that when it came to talking to girls—especially girls with tears in their eyes—she had never seen a cowboy in her life who could put three words together without getting all tongue-tied. Daisy grinned.
That should be fun to watch.

The teenage girl was puzzled when Charlie Moon did not show up shortly after breakfast. Or shortly before lunch, which for Sarah was the dry, butt end of the Velveeta block sandwiched between two pieces of stale white bread, smeared with mayonnaise from the bottom of the jar. Another glass of almost-soured milk.

After the midday meal, the girl pulled a white cotton sweater over her pretty blue dress, went outside in her shiny-new black shoes, listened for the sound of the big automobile. What she heard was a raven, perched on the top of an electric utility pole. As members of the rude Crow tribe are wont to do, the black bird caw-cawed a rude haw-haw at We Know Who.