Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  LATE ON FRIDAY NIGHT

  A few minutes before midnight, Wanda Naranjo was in her four-poster, flat on her back and still as death itself. To enhance the macabre effect, the woman’s face glowed with a sickly green luminescence, as if her taut skin were illuminated by a sinister source of inner twilight. Was the woman merely deceased … or was her fleshly presence suspended in a far worse state that does not bear even thinking about?

  Neither.

  The truth of the matter is disappointingly pedestrian. The lady’s eerie olive pallor was produced by a pair of fluorescent nightlights plugged into electrical receptacles on either side of Wanda’s sturdy bedstead.

  Unaware of her lime-tinted complexion and the heart-stopping effect it would have on a nervous burglar, the lady turned onto her right side. Her fevered brain festered with the malignant seed the chief of police had planted there. Likely as not, Mike’s the father of my idiot daughter’s baby. Flopping back onto her back like a beached carp, the feisty little woman stared at the ceiling where whiskers of greenish cobwebs mimicked that parasitic growth that rolling stones do not gather. Her first assumption led to a second. One way or another, he’s responsible for Betty not coming home. And the second a third. So Mike knows where Betty is. Why did this cause her lips to curl into a vicious grin? Because Wanda knew where to find Mike. Rat-face’ll be holed up in that dumpy little camping trailer down south of town. Rolling onto her left side, she doubted that Betty was with the lowlife. Mike wouldn’t want to have a pregnant teenager on his hands. A clock in the parlor chimed twelve times. Back onto her back. I don’t know what I ever saw in that sorry excuse for a man.

  An interesting question, and one worthy of perhaps three seconds of thoughtful introspection, but not the burning issue of the moment—which was: what should she do about Michael Kauffmann?

  Having mulled this over after Charlie Moon and Scott Parris had departed, Wanda Naranjo had come up with a plan. She was just itching to share her bold plot with an audience that could be counted on to keep a secret. Having neither fuzzy dog, standoffish cat, nor scaly goldfish to converse with, she whispered to the mossy growth of cobwebs hanging overhead, “I’ll drive out to his trailer, kick the door in, and stick my pistol into his belly button, and if Mike don’t tell me what’s happened to Betty, I’ll gut-shoot the worthless son of a bitch four times.” (Do not jump to the conclusion that the woman is without mercy; she has saved a cartridge.) “After the miserable coward kicks and screams and rolls on the floor and begs me to put him out of his horrible misery and tells me everything he knows, I’ll finish him off with one right between the eyes.”

  Despite these violent promises to herself, Wanda had never killed a human being—not even a sorry specimen like Michael Kauffmann. She supposed that it might take a couple of days to get up the gumption to carry the thing off.

  We all know that lurid plots laid at blackest midnight are frequently tempered by the soothing glow of dawn’s first light. So what was the likelihood that she would actually go through with the daring plan to encounter her ex-hairy-leg one last time with a cocked-and-loaded pistol in her hand? Somewhere between very likely and a sure thing. The moment the lady had made up her mind to go agunning for Mike, the robust young man was instantly burdened with what is known in the trade as a disqualifying precondition. Had the part-time carpenter carried a term-life policy, any insurance company in the know would have immediately downgraded the insured from so-so to extremely poor risk.

  A serious dose of bad news for the part-time carpenter, but what’s terminally toxic to the philandering gander can be delightfully agreeable to the vengeful goose. Was Betty’s angry mother already feeling better? Yes indeed, and here’s why: just as a nagging vacillation about how to deal with a vexing problem tends to feed insomnia, coming to a firm decision is often an effective soporific. It was on this occasion. After enjoying a soul-satisfying yawn, Wanda Naranjo smiled like a darling little girl cuddling an adorable kitten—and drifted off into a restful sleep.

  BETTY NARANJO’S SINGULAR AWAKENING

  By one of those peculiar synchronicities that connect parents to their offspring, the daughter’s journey commenced just as Wanda Naranjo was falling asleep. In contrast to her mother’s swift transfer into that shadowy locale where pleasant dreams and hideous nightmares alike are fashioned, the girl not only was moving in the opposite direction—but her return to consciousness was to be an exceedingly gradual process.

  The teenager’s first vague sense of identity was not that she was—or ever had been—a living, breathing human being. In Miss Naranjo’s murky dream-coma, she was an entity akin to that forgotten refuse of life that lies beneath the bright world where dazzling sunflowers burst into glorious bloom, exultant bluebirds sing, and flighty butterflies take to wing. Betty was twin sister to some dumb, unthinking thing … a waterlogged cypress trunk that had resided on the bottom of a dank, silty swamp for decades, centuries … perhaps millennia. The initial spark of awareness began somewhere just under her rough-bark skin, then penetrated sixteen growth rings deep into the very core of her wooden self.

  Her not-quite-dead presence supposed that this drift toward semiconsciousness was due to that ordinary decay that causes corpses of animals to bloat and float to the surface. The process seemed quite natural; during their digestive and excretory processes, the concerted action of trillions of single-cell cannibal animalcules produce tiny bubbles of gas. As a result, the heavy life-form the creatures inhabit becomes slightly lighter than the liquid media it is immersed in … and is obliged by the laws of physics to rise.

  But toward where?

  Some pleasant interface between buoyant liquid and fresh, life-giving air?

  Not in this instance.

  Betty’s destination was not a warm, welcome light. The youth was destined to encounter another kind of darkness entirely, and one far more terrifying than the dumb numbness of deep, endless sleep.

  When the girl eventually opened her eyes—she blinked in surprise at the infinite, impenetrable blackness. It took a few faltering heartbeats for the question to form in her mind: What’s happened to me? Her confused intellect came up with an answer. I’ve gone stone blind.

  Under the circumstances, a plausible deduction. But …

  Not so far away, a dim rectangle of gray was materializing in the darkness.

  Oh—that looks like a window.

  Perhaps so.

  I think I can hear something.

  Indeed, her eardrums and associated cochlear apparatus had begun to provide tantalizing whispers of information. Or was it misinformation? Hard to tell. But the data was duly processed by her increasingly functioning brain.

  That sounds like rain. The girl closed her eyes and strained. Rain falling on …

  Falling on what?

  On a metal roof.

  Betty opened her eyes again. Something seemed to be forming on the gray rectangle. Tiny dots. Pearly spots. Those must be raindrops. She tried to focus on the space directly above her face, and listened intently to the ploppity-plops of supposed raindrops. The roof isn’t too far away.

  But what was beneath her?

  I’m on my back, laying on some kind of bed. A little cot, she thought, with a mattress that felt hard and lumpy. Along with these quasi-clues to her immediate environment, Betty was also becoming aware of a dullish collection of pains. Her spine and ribs ached. Summing up all this sensory input, her mind attempted to make up a story to account for her situation. I’ve gotten hurt and somebody has taken me inside. She sniffed. It’s dusty here. And though she couldn’t see the walls, some deep instinct assured her that the space she occupied was small. I’m probably in a little shack, like the old shed behind our house where Momma stores old furniture and stuff. The girl tried ever so hard to see through the blackness. Or maybe I’m upstairs in a tiny loft, and it’s raining on a steel roof. Wherever she was … I’m all by myself.

  Reasonable conclusions, given
the totality of her prior assumptions: If it was rain that the girl heard. If there was a metal roof over her head.

  If she was alone.

  Betty Naranjo tried to move her right hand. That reluctant member refused to respond. As did her numb left hand. What’s happened to me?

  It occurred to her that she might be paralyzed from an injury. Or … Maybe I’m strapped onto this hard bed. Or both.

  Terror’s icy fingers stroked Betty’s throbbing throat.

  I’m hurt really bad and somebody has tied me down. The grim assumption led to a stark conclusion. Unless somebody comes to help me, I’ll die here!

  Fear feeds on itself and invites additional predators to dine—sadistic Terror was immediately joined by her insane sister Hysteria. Their dark appetites now synergistically combined, the hideous siblings licked their lips in anticipation of devouring the teenager.

  The pregnant teenager.

  This most significant fact of Betty’s existence suddenly flooded her consciousness.

  As it did, she was distracted from the horror of her presumed predicament by the realization that the innocent child in her womb was also a victim. If Betty was about to slip away into that final, deepest of sleeps—so was the little one she had never seen.

  Let it be noted that despite her several shortcomings, the girl was no whimpering sissy. Like her mother, father, and a thousand other hardy ancestors—the youth had steel in her backbone and a bushel of grit in her craw. Though unable to move her limbs, she could open her mouth and make use of her lungs, vocal cords, and lips. And so she did. Not loudly, though.

  There would be no shrill screams from Wanda Naranjo’s daughter.

  Oh so softly, the expectant mother began to murmur a loving lullaby to that new soul inside her body. As she sang so sweetly—and forgot her miserable self so completely—the dismal center of Betty’s soul was likewise born anew. Her transformation was ignited by the tiniest spark of light, but it is written that “An infinitesimal twinkling in God’s eye outshines a supernova in the blackest sky.” By and by, that heavenly radiance would blossom and grow into a purifying inferno—burning away all her inner darkness.

  Forevermore.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SATURDAY MORNING, LONG BEFORE DAWN

  Excepting wide-eyed insomniacs, overcaffeinated long-haul truck drivers, and prowling police officers trawling for wary nightcrawlers—Colorado’s citizenry was asleep. Each of them has an interesting story to tell, but we shall limit our attention to just one of these slumbering souls.

  THE SLEEPER

  Far to the south of Granite Creek and even farther from her nephew’s vast cattle ranch, Daisy Perika is cuddled snug in her bed, a plump feather pillow under her head, a hand-stitched quilt pulled up to her chin. Doesn’t she look like a Saturday Evening Post cover painted by Norman Rockwell’s magic brush—the very image of wrinkled-granny innocence? Which illustrates why one must not judge a magazine by its cover; the most hard-boiled cynics among us would be shocked, stunned, and outraged to read what is written on the secret pages of Daisy’s diary.

  To avoid unnecessary scandal, we shall limit ourselves to the more benign aspects of our notorious subject’s public life—what a tolerant soul might call her charming foibles.

  Anyone who knows Charlie Moon’s aunt is aware that Miss Daisy is a mite cranky before she’s had her morning coffee, and waking the tribal elder in the middle of the night is like touching a flame to a short fuse on a stick of dynamite. According to Mr. Moon, the tribal elder’s explosive temper led to that well-known Southern Ute proverb: “Unless the tipi is on fire, let sleeping aunties recline.”

  This sage advice (so Moon asserts) is the origin of several derivative “old sayings” such as: “Let sleeping jackals lie”; “Leave well enough alone”; and, “Don’t go yanking on Superman’s cape,” but that is neither here nor there.

  Yes, there is a point here and it is this: in the grand scheme of things, there must always be an exception that exists for the sole purpose of proving the rule. As Daisy Perika snores through both nostrils and her mouth, this exceptional personage is about to announce his extraordinary presence. While Daisy’s uninvited guest is considering how best to effect his dramatic entrance, the sleeper—whose happy dreams are generally liberally provided with flora—finds herself in a setting reminiscent of the recent mountain-meadow production.

  HER DREAM

  A mere wisp of a girl with the fresh breeze whipping her long black locks, a teenage Daisy rides a spotted pony bareback across a buffalo-grass prairie dotted with wildflowers of every color a human being’s mind can reproduce from the wavelengths of sunlight, and a few impossible hues invented especially for this occasion. To enhance her experience, the vast dreamland pasture is inhabited with several species of agreeable mammals, including lovable bewhiskered mice, delightfully cute cottontails, and an innocent spotted fawn that has been recently orphaned. But the scene is not entirely one that would please Mr. Disney (God bless his soul). The unseemly blemish on an otherwise charming landscape is a hideous jackalope, bearing a pair of huge elk antlers that would look mighty fine mounted over Charlie Moon’s mantelpiece. Those who are not familiar with the species might argue that an authentic jackalope would wear genuine antelope headgear but this is Daisy’s dream, which is based upon genuine postcards she’s seen.

  When her piebald pony pauses to drink from a sparking stream where rainbow trout dart about, the willowy rider slips off her mount, kneels on the pebbled bank, and is about to quench her thirst, when—the horrid jackalope kicks her in the ribs!

  This was not a friendly kick; the Ute girl feels like she’s been hit by a brick.

  A SINGULAR NIGHT VISITOR

  The impact had awakened Daisy Perika from her restful sleep—so abruptly that she turned her head to see what had kicked her and felt something pop in her neck bones. Oh, my—that dream was so real!

  So real that her ribs still ached like all get-out from the jackalope’s kick, which raised a dark suspicion in her mind.

  The old woman blinked in the darkness. Something really did hit me on the side. But despite Daisy’s rather broadminded view of reality, she did not believe in such folk as kicking jackalopes, prissy English fairies, or green-hatted Irish leprechauns. She did believe that … Something is right here in my bedroom.

  Something was. She could feel its presence.

  I bet one of those fuzzy-faced masked buggers slipped into the house. The tribal elder knew for a fact that the Raccoon People were very clever. They could open tightly fitting trash-can lids, buckled lunch boxes, and latched gates. So why not locked windows or doors? It was not clear to her how a furry animal could manage that latter task, but … Maybe they carry skeleton keys. (Miss Daisy was still groggy. Also ready to put up a fight.) I wish I had the 12-gauge shotgun here by my bed.

  The fact that she didn’t should not encourage a burglar. When at home alone, Daisy keeps a well-honed butcher knife under her pillow. (Those citizens who wish to keep all their fingers firmly attached to their hands should not follow this practice in their own four-posters, or when sleeping out.) Ever so slowly, she moved her trusty right hand toward the wickedly sharp weapon. And had just gotten her fingers around the hickory handle when—

  Her visitor addressed her with a greeting, the gist of which was that—it’d been way too long since he had enjoyed her company.

  When he was of a mind to, the intruder could converse in passable English, Spanish, or the modern Ute dialect, but the words Daisy heard were uttered in an archaic version of her native tongue. The tribal elder sighed and let go of the butcher knife. “Oh, it’s you.”

  Indeed it was—none other than that alleged knee-high dwarf who supposedly inhabits an abandoned badger den in Cañón del Espíritu. (The qualifiers are inserted because hardly anyone besides Daisy has ever seen the legendary personage. Sarah Frank believes she has seen approximately half of the pitukupf, and Scott Parris may have seen his miniature footprint
s in the snow.) Whatever the truth may be about his objective reality, the homely creature—who was real enough to Daisy—appeared clad in dirty buckskin britches, a green shirt that looked like it had never been washed, and a tattered straw hat that might have been discarded by a discerning hobo. Did we mention how his soiled toes protruded from a filthy pair of dilapidated doeskin moccasins? It was just as well; the effect was distinctly off-putting. Which suggests that enough has been said on the matter. Except for the proverbial bottom line: in addition to his questionable taste in apparel and no doubt due to his disinterest in hygienic virtues, Daisy’s visitor was—to state the case bluntly—noticeably malodorous.

  The tribal elder put it more bluntly: He stinks like something the dog likes to roll in. She posed those natural questions that tend to arise in a tense social encounter such as the one at hand: “What’re you doing standing on my bed at this hour—and why did you haul off and kick me in the ribs?”

  Whilst affecting a convincing shiver, the pitukupf provided an answer.

  She snorted at the Little Man’s response. “Because you’re cold?”

  He certainly was. And so would Daisy be if she resided in a hole in the ground. It was not as if such rustic domiciles came equipped with central heating.

  She rolled her eyes. “Why didn’t you pitch some more sticks onto your fire?”

  This impertinent query irked. Because he was out of firewood.

  “So what d’you want from me?” Daisy thought she knew.

  The shaman’s elfish guest confirmed her suspicion by tugging at her quilt.