Somewhere off in the darkness, a lonesome, home-alone, backyard beagle barked twice and then whined.
Nearer by, a pickup’s radio suddenly boomed full-blast with a sad 1950s Hank Williams ballad. (Old Hank was so lonely he could cry.)
The hound let out a prolonged, mournful howl—as if crooning a melancholy duet with his forlorn soul mate. As oftentimes happens after nightfall, the heartfelt canine yodel seemed uncannily appropriate.
Behind an open hotel window, a drunken woman’s shrill laugh cut through the night like a steak knife slicing off a raw slice of blackest despair.
The Ute waited with characteristic patience. Stolid as a knotty-pine Indian stationed in front of a cigar store, Charlie Moon counted his heavy heartbeats.
On ventricular contraction number forty-two, the stone mask slipped off Parris’s face. He rubbed at his eyes.
Moon: “You feeling some better, pardner?”
“Almost as good as death warmed over.” As he got to his feet, Scott Parris returned Moon’s gaze and was startled to see the bleak expression there. Charlie has something else that needs telling. The lawman who didn’t want to hear any more bad news today could not help asking, “So what’s gnawing at you?”
Presented with the invitation he’d been waiting for—and dreading—the deputy held his tongue. Say what you will of tired old maxims and tedious clichés, there are occasions when silence does speak louder than words. The Ute’s tight lips fairly screamed.
The chief of police was aware of a slight buzz in his ears, a dreadful tingling in his fingertips. “There’s something about Whysper you haven’t told me.”
The time had come. Moon pointed his boot toe at the silenced .32-caliber automatic just inches from the assassin’s hand. “When you banged on that hotel-room door last night, we’re lucky that Cowboy didn’t think we’d showed up to make an arrest—and shoot us dead.”
“Yeah.” The white cop stared dumbly at the lethal weapon.
The Ute angler dangled the terrible bait: “If it’d been just you and me at the door, we probably wouldn’t be here anymore.”
“Yeah.” Scott Parris didn’t bite. “Good thing Whysper realized that we took her for Louella Smithson.” That was a sure-enough close call.
He sure ain’t making this easy. Like a blind man stepping into quicksand, Charlie Moon pressed on. “Once she realized our mistake, Miss Whysper must’ve figured she’d hit the jackpot. She’s in Miss Smithson’s hotel room for a few minutes, checking out her victim’s personal effects—and you and me show up like a couple of clowns … with our lady friends.” The deputy held his breath. Please. Take the hint.
“Right.” Parris helped himself to a half portion of the suggestion. “And when she learns that you’re engaged to Patsy, the hired gun knows right away who one of her intended victims is. But tonight, she mistook Patsy’s sister for—” This thought was interrupted by a wrenching coldness that twisted his gut. It’s unlikely, but just to be on the safe side … “I’d better call Tiffany and make sure she’s all right.”
Moon heard his mouth say, “That call has already been made, pardner.”
“Thanks, Charlie—you think of everything.” The exhausted cop closed his eyes. “I’m glad that this is all over and done with.”
Charlie Moon averted his gaze from his friend’s haggard face. “I wish it was.” And, I wish I was someplace ten thousand miles from here so somebody else would have to tell you.
NOW FOR THE HARD PART
Scott Parris’s bull neck was sore from shaking his head, but he did it again. “The murderer’s laying here stone-cold dead at our feet—Patsy and Tiffany are okay—and as far as we know, Patsy’s sister will survive.” And we already know the Bushmans are dead. “So what’s the big problem I don’t know about?”
As he tried to find his voice, Charlie Moon was fearful that he wouldn’t be able to pull this off.
Parris was also afraid; his fear increased when he saw the Indian’s deathly grim expression.
“I’m sorry, pard. Clara Tavishuts made the call to check on Professor Mayfair, but…” That was all Moon could get past his lips.
It was sufficient.
“Oh, God … no.” Having taken the hit square on the chin, Tiffany Mayfair’s sweetheart reeled and grabbed at the wrecked sedan’s open door.
Charlie Moon reached out to steady his friend.
The stricken man blinked at the darkness, and his voice was hoarse with dread. “Tiffany … you’re telling me she’s actually dead?” Such a horror did not seem possible.
Moon nodded.
Light-years beyond a rage that he could not express without slipping into madness, Scott Parris was rescued by his brain—which shifted into mind-survival mode.
The deputy was chilled to see his old friend revert to his former Chicago PD persona—a gruff, big-city cop inquiring about a run-of-the-mill homicide.
“So how’d Whysper do it, Charlie—gunshot?”
“No. Same as with Pete, Dolly—and Patsy’s sister. A blow to the head.”
“Like the purse snatcher got his.” Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. All this because I tossed a damn can of black-eyed peas at a petty criminal who wasn’t worth lizard spit! Ever so gradually, Parris returned to himself. One salty bead at a time, the tough guy’s eyes filled with bitter tears, and his husky voice made a plea: “Tiffany must’ve died … passed quickly.” Please tell me she did.
“Of course she did, pard. It was all over before the lady knew what’d happened.” But she must’ve seen it coming. The deputy recalled an incident a long time ago in Ignacio when a delivery van running a Stop sign had hit his bicycle. Time had slowed in the instant of impact; a fractional second stretched into a minute—and then the lights went out. But that was way back when and this was right now.
“One dead assassin.” As Parris toed the pistol away from Miss Whysper’s stiffening fingers, he counted the others. Louella Smithson, whom he’d never met. Her fine old Texas Ranger granddaddy. Pete and Dolly Bushman. And of course … Tiffany. “Five upstanding citizens to one lowlife—that ain’t a very good score for the home team, Charlie.”
“That it’s not, pard.”
Yes, Parris’s count was short, but neither he nor his deputy was aware of the brutal murder of upstanding citizen number six. The cold, gray corpse of Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton, aka Marcella Clay, lay on a stainless-steel tray in an unspecified federal morgue in Prince George County. Was this outstanding public servant to be forgotten by her government? Perish the very thought. And neither would the woman who had dispatched the assassin to Granite Creek County. The Agent Clayton case would not be closed until the remains of Francine Hooten were six feet under the sod, and an anonymous—
But should such an unseemly, unofficial ritual be revealed?
You bet.
The Agent Clayton case would not be closed until the remains of Francine Hooten were six feet under the sod and an anonymous special agent (who’d selected the cherished short straw) had urinated on Mrs. Hooten’s grave.
But that victory celebration was somewhere far over the yonder horizon. In the meantime, what about the Colorado lawmen? They had suffered through a month-long day; there was nothing more to say. Not with words.
During the ensuing silence, Scott Parris wept openly, his heavy shoulders heaving with every sob.
No less wounded than his best friend, Charlie Moon didn’t taste the salty blood he’d bitten from his lip.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
SAYING GOODBYE (VARIATIONS ON A THEME)
We are assured (by those in the know) that funerals in whatever form serve the worthy function of comforting the bereaved, and in many instances this is no doubt so. But what about those silent players who occupy center stage at these solemn rituals? More to the point—do the spirits of the dearly departed linger long enough to witness the final ceremonies performed in their honor?
For some of us, the question of ghosts remains one of those open issues�
��perhaps to be resolved when we are eventually privileged (or not) to view the subject from a distinctly different perspective.
Those who are convinced that matter “is all that is or ever was or ever will be” will smile (or even sneer) at such a naïve question. But note that by actual count, some 82 percent of these no-nonsense folk talk to dogs, cats—and grave markers.
There are, of course, firmly opposing views that are based upon sacred tradition, impressive anecdotal evidence, and compelling personal experience.
Fascinating as it might be to examine these conflicting opinions in great depth and with considerable sensitivity, we prefer to proceed as all moderns do when it is necessary to settle a knotty issue. We shall take a poll. No, do not anticipate an extremely annoying robo-call at 10:00 P.M. This is strictly a shoestring operation, so in the interest of economy this survey of the population will not be strictly scientific—our sample size is one. (PhD statisticians will please resist the compelling urge to offer helpful advice.)
Who is this randomly selected, perfectly average citizen who will have the awesome responsibility of accurately representing hundreds of millions? A hint: her initials are D.P.
THE RESULTS ARE IN
Here they are:
It would never occur to Daisy Perika to question the existence of disembodied spirits; as we already know, she is intimately acquainted with dozens of them. And as to the question of whether these wispy wraiths habitually linger in the vicinity of their funerals, the tribal elder knows for a fact that they do. According to the old woman who can see dead people (so she ought to know), the ghostly presence usually remains near the corpse for several days after death has undone the tie that binds mortal flesh to that essence of personality which cannot die. And why shouldn’t they enjoy their big send-off? The Southern Ute tribal elder will look you right in the eye and tell you that any ghost who was born in the good old U.S. of A. has a constitutional right to attend her (or his) own going-away celebration if she (or he) is of a mind to—and then hover around until the burial is a done deal. Do not waste time arguing the point with Charlie Moon’s irascible auntie, who will advise you as follows: “Anybody who don’t understand that is a big gourd-head!” So Daisy has asserted on several occasions to Charlie Moon or any other well-intentioned ignoramus who happened to aggravate her by raising vexing questions about “what anybody with half a brain knows.”
But the truth of a matter of honest doubt is not determined by who shouts the loudest. Until the matter is finally settled, we may consider apparently conflicting testimony from presumably reliable witnesses. (Daisy insists on being heard again on this subject, and firstly.)
FOND FAREWELLS TO THE CANTANKEROUS COLUMBINE FOREMAN AND HIS SWEET WIFE
In addition to a crowd of local citizens from all walks of life, practically every ranching family in GC County turned out for Pete and Dolly Bushman’s graveside service. The solemnities were performed at the Columbine’s small cemetery, which is located atop Pine Knob. Even the eldest of the old-timers managed to ride a horse through the cold, rolling, waist-deep river that waters Charlie Moon’s Herefords and alfalfa crop, and not a few of those hardy souls will have crossed over that final River before another winter passes.
How many spirits did Daisy Perika see lurking around the fresh grave site? Dolly and Pete were present (so she says), and the tribal elder reports the visible presence of a half-dozen others. Four of these told the old woman that they’d been buried on the barren hilltop by her nephew. (Such claims cannot be verified; only one of the graves the Ute had filled was provided with a marker—and for good reason.) The shaman also sensed a gathering of unseen specters, and these outnumbered the visible spirits. It was Daisy’s professional opinion that this latter congregation had been haunting the lonely old graveyard for a long time before the Columbine Ranch was established.
SAYING ADIOS TO THE EX-TEXAS RANGER AND HIS FAVORITE GRANDDAUGHTER
About a week after Pete and Dolly were laid to rest on the Knob, Charlie Moon and Scott Parris were among dozens of lawmen—mostly Texas Rangers, middle-aged and retired—who attended the burial service for Ray and Louella Smithson on Ray’s little ranch out west of Plainview. Neither Charlie nor Scott had anything uncanny to report, and if anyone among the local mourners saw a ghost, that taciturn Texan kept it to himself.
But something did happen that may be worth mentioning. We’ll let an old gent by the name of “Turkey” Bob Wilson tell it: “Just as six strong men was a-lowerin’ Ray’s pine box into that sandy slot in the ground, why here come this rip-roarin’ dust devil—and I tell you, it like to blew the short whiskers right offa my chin!” When asked what he made of this curious event, Mr. Wilson replied, “Oh, there’s no figurin’ these West Texas whirlwinds—I s’pose it dropped by just to make ol’ Ray’s send-off interestin’.”
Perhaps so.
But more than one old lawman held on to his Stetson and thought as he grinned, It’s Ray Smithson’s way of sayin’, “See you later, ol’ friends—somewhere down yonder where the trail ends.”
THE PROFESSOR’S MEMORIAL SERVICE
We refer to the solemn send-off for Ms. Tiffany Mayfair, which staid farewell was conducted in a New England township that shall remain unnamed. Picture-postcard-perfect village though it was, Scott Parris did not want to go there. That’s what the recently bereaved boyfriend assured himself after he was not invited to attend the affair—which privilege was limited to immediate family members and a few select friends. This latter group pointedly did not include an uncouth ex-Chicago cop boyfriend who was four years older than Tiffany’s daddy. Scott is getting somewhat long in the tooth to be romancing a fluffy-headed youth, but any honest rowdy in Granite Creek will tell you that Chief Parris is every bit as couth as any other big-fisted, hard-hitting hombre you’re likely to meet on Copper Street. (And this hardcase is liable to deck you for looking at him crosswise.)
But enough about Scott Parris. The scholarly issue being addressed herein is whether (or not) anyone present at the going-away sensed something that suggested the presence of Tiffany’s spiritual essence. (Such as a whiff of her favorite perfume.)
The answer is: we flat don’t know. Within such hermetically sealed inner circles as that of the Mayfair clan, it is virtually impossible to find a reliable informant.
EXIT ONE LEROY HOOTEN
As her son’s earthly remains were deposited in the weedy rose garden behind the crumbling family mansion, Francine Hooten was the only person present to witness the interment. Unless you count Cushing, the butler (who remained a respectful distance away), and the hired man with the rented backhoe, who Francine did not (count him). She did pay the latter citizen the agreed five-hundred-dollar (cash money) fee for digging the eight-by-three-by-six-foot (deep) hole, lowering the bronze casket, and filling it. (The hole, not the casket.) Francine also tipped the hireling a crisp new twenty-dollar bill for tamping the mound of dirt down neatly before chugging away in the sturdy Bobcat.
Though Mrs. Hooten had risked a great deal to avenge her son’s death, during the burial she did not shed a single salty tear. Cold-hearted? Perhaps. But do not dismiss the wheelchair-bound woman as a lonely widow who has been bested and beaten. Francine’s defeat is real and hard to bear—but temporary. Before she goes away, the lady is determined to have her final say.
Did the mother see her son’s ghost? No.
But we shall take note of the fact that the gravedigger was happy to depart from the desolate burial spot. Whether or not he’d spotted something a man would rather not see cannot be determined with certainty. But as soon as he’d returned the backhoe to Polk’s Heavy Equipment Rentals & Floral Gifts (a nifty pop-and-mom shop), he dropped in at his favorite tavern. Nothing unusual about that. Except that the sober citizen who chugged down maybe a half-dozen beers in an entire year treated himself to a couple of shots of straight Jack Daniel’s. Then a couple more. Before long, the hardworking man had squandered a significant portion of the day’s pro
fits at Duncan’s Bar & Grill. Before much longer, he fell off the stool, sprawling unconscious on the filthy barroom floor. The higher-class drunks laughed at the unfortunate soul and made unseemly remarks.
Which doesn’t prove that Mr. Gravedigger saw anything scary when he put Mr. LeRoy Hooten under the sod.
MISSY WHYSPER, AKA THE COWBOY ASSASSIN
During the next several months, the Federal Bureau of Investigation would apply every means available to modern forensic science in an effort to identify her body. Yes, without success.
Evidently, neither the woman’s fingerprints, toe prints, nor DNA profile had been recorded in any database available to the Bureau. There had been some minor dental work done on three molars and a cracked bicuspid, but all attempts to locate the skilled dentist would come to naught. The shady lady had nine known aliases, almost as many Social Security numbers, and motor vehicle driver’s licenses from seven states—plus Alberta.
Aside from a three-minute ecumenical service provided by a semiretired Anglican FBI chaplain, Miss Whysper would have no formal send-off to the Eternal Mystery. Her unclaimed corpse will reside in the Bureau’s facility in Chicago until it is identified. Or (and this is more likely) forgotten.
As far as we know, no one at the FBI has reported seeing a spirit hovering above her earthly remains. But those feds who tote sidearms and eat bank robbers for breakfast and kidnappers for lunch are a tight-lipped bunch.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
THE GAME-CHANGING DELIVERY
No, not a red-hot fastball sizzlin’ over home plate, the introduction of a lovable infant to the light of day, or any kind of murky metaphor you can call to mind. This was one of those literal deliveries—and by FedEx. Here comes the truck right this minute—roaring down the Columbine lane, kicking up brown gravel and gritty dust like a wild-eyed bull buffalo on a dead run toward anyplace under the sun but where he’s acomin’ from.
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