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.
Forty-Four
Close Encounter of the Worst Kind
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:
If this is an animal, I can’t imagine what kind.
If it’s human, the fellow’s vocabulary is limited.
Any fella who lives out in the woods is likely to be armed.
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.
The disarmed mountain woman made up her mind. She would not spit. But if the dog attacked, she would kill it with her bare hands. Bobbie Sue watched the tall, thin man throw her crossbow high into a spruce, where it hung on a brushy limb.
Moon fixed his gaze on the apparition Scott Parris had seen crossing the road. “You are in deep trouble.”
“No I ain’t.” She flexed her fingers. “I can take you and that hound dog too.”
“I don’t think so. But that’s not the trouble I’m talking about.”
A crafty, deceptive look hung on her face. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“You know.”
The shaggy head rotated on an unseen neck. “No, I don’.”
Moon put on a stormy scowl. “That snowy night when Mr. Turner’s car went off the Spencer driveway—you were there. And don’t deny it—the chief of police saw you.”
“Oh, I don’ deny that.”
“You don’t?”
“Huh-uh.”
Very sternly, he said, “Bobbie Sue—look me straight in the eye.”
She did.
“Now tell me the honest truth—when Turner came around that curve, were you standing in the driveway?”
“Huh-uh.”
Their gazes were locked for a long moment before Moon said, “Do you like strawberries?”
There was no indication that this off-the-wall question surprised her. “Sure do.” An’ I likes good-lookin’ men. The mouth curled into a leering grin. ’Specially tall ones.
The tall man posed another question: “What do you know about that woman who was killed on the far side of the mountain—Astrid Spencer.”
“I know the cops figger a bear’s to blame.”
“What else do you know?”
“A whole lot more’n I’m gonna tell you.”
“Maybe all you know is what you hear on your hand-crank radio.”
She grunted. “’T wasn’t nothin’ on the radio about you bein’ at Yellow Pines with all them other cops. I spotted you when the sun come up, out lookin’ for bear tracks.”
Moon had a lot to think about, and some tangles to sort out. But unanswered questions about Astrid Spencer death would have to sit on the back burner. Finding out what had happened to Andrew Turner—that was Job One. He estimated his chances of getting something out of Bobbie Sue at somewhere between slim and none. The player had one card to toss on the table. He stared at the hulk of a woman engulfed in the grizzly bear’s full-body embrace. “By late this afternoon, this place is going to be crawling with police officers. And forest rangers. A whole battalion of National Guard. Why, they’ll be all over Spencer Mountain, thick as fleas on a coyote.” He jabbed a thumb at the clearing sky. “And there’ll be helicopters.” Seeing a hint of alarm in her eyes, he laid it on thicker yet: “And a dozen bloodhounds.”
The mountain woman eyed the Indian. “Whuffor?”
“I’ll tell you whuffor.” The Ute put on his meanest scowl. “They’ll be looking for Andrew Turner.”
Three Sisters Page 30
