The Shaman Laughs Read Online Free PDF Page A

wondered whether the near-bankrupt airline could afford proper maintenance. He also wondered when he would see her again—
if
he would see her again. The policeman turned away, angry with himself for these absurd, neurotic imaginings. Of course the engine wouldn't fall off the wing. Of course she would be back. And if the deep lonesomes moved in to stay, he would say good-bye to Colorado and show up at her door. This fantasy was immensely calming.
    He was in the parking garage when he heard Sam Parker's booming voice.
    "Parris! Scott Parris, you trout-fishing sunnuvagun, is that you?" Parker burst from a crowd of travelers, the image of a successful attorney in his expensive three-piece suit.
    Parris grabbed Parker's outstretched hand and pumped it with enthusiasm.
    The special agent in charge of the Denver Field Office was, he explained from the corner of his mouth, just returning from a trip to Boston. On some unmentioned Bureau business. "Why don't you come over to the house this evening, spend the night with us," Sam said. "I'll broil some steaks so rare, there'll still be ticks on the hide."
    Parris grinned and glanced at his watch; the morning was slipping away. "Sounds hard to pass up, but I've got to get back to Granite Creek and get things shipshape at the station before I head for Ignacio."
    Parker dropped his suitcase at his feet and leaned a long cardboard cylinder against the wall. "Oh, yeah. I heard you were going to be acting chief cop for the Southern Utes while Roy Severe's away on vacation." He searched Parris's face in an effort to detect some clue to his feelings. Parris had seen the same expression when Sam Parker sat in a bass boat, reading meaning into the ripples on Navajo Lake. "I'm surprised Granite Creek can do without you for that long."
    Parris leaned against a steel column. "No problem, actually. Got a leave of absence. Leggett will be taking care of the shop while I'm away. He'll probably have my job before I get back."
    Parker tilted his head quizzically, a sure sign he had something on his mind. "Frankly, I'm surprised the Utes didn't appoint Charlie Moon as acting chief. Or Sally Rainwater. She's been around since Moses parted the waters."
    "I don't know about Sally, but Moon turned 'em down flat," Parris said. "Charlie said he didn't want a desk job. He suggested they ask me to cover for Severe So, they made me an offer."
    Parker nodded. "Sergeant Moon's a good cop. Only one thing I have against him," he said with earnest dismay, "he's a
bait
fisherman." He faked a shudder. "Night crawlers, crickets, grasshoppers."
    "I figured a change of scenery would be good for me. Nothing's happening in Granite Creek. Anne just left for Washington, won't be back for weeks." Maybe months.
    "What's Anne Foster up to in the District?"
    "She's in demand since her piece on the 'Sunday Morn-* ing' show last year. She's landed some kind of contract with CBS." His eyes had a faraway look. "Anne speaks several foreign languages, so I expect the network will find lots of ways to keep her busy. She'll probably be wined and dined at the best embassy parties." Parris was suddenly ashamed of the bitterness he heard in his voice; he wondered if he sounded like a small boy whose mommy had left him at school for the first time. "I figure I'll spend a few weeks with Charlie Moon, find out where all the good fishing holes are down there. With any luck, the whole thing will be a vacation. When the stint's over, I'll take a week or two of real vacation, show up on Anne's doorstep. Maybe if I'm good," he said earnestly, "she'll adopt me."
    Parker was entirely lost in thoughts of his seven-pound line cutting the water like a hot wire through butter, a bristly Joe's Hopper trailing in intermittent jumps at the end of an invisible meter of nylon tippet. He could almost see a four-teen-inch native brown, its glistening body breaking the surface to take the hand-tied fly, then diving to bend the rod double. "Maybe I'll get a