A Dead Man's Tale

by James D. Doss

  Silently as a panther padding along a mossy forest floor, the Ute circled the Reeds’ home. After satisfying himself that all was well, the lawman returned to the guest house and made a fresh pot of coffee. Positioning himself at the bedroom window, where he could keep an eye on Mrs. Reed’s back door, it was inevitable that Moon would begin to muse about the man he was trying to keep alive until June 5. The scientist-turned-investor was more than merely interesting. Professor Reed was a curious contradiction. Practically an enigma.

  Moon considered a for-example: That morning in Scott’s office, Reed told us he had to hurry away to get a manicure. And as it happened, Samuel Reed had apparently lied about having an appointment that no other self-respecting Granite Creek County man would have admitted to—not if you held the muzzle of a cocked and loaded .44 Colt revolver to his head. After Reed had admitted to his shameful intent, the man under the homburg had made a beeline to Leadville Lily’s seedy establishment. Charlie Moon knew this because he had followed Reed there. And whatever other unseemly activities the proprietor might occasionally engage in, Lily had her standards. She would never stoop to clipping a grown man’s fingernails. Moon couldn’t imagine a fellow like Sam Reed paying Miss Lily to decorate a patch of his skin. Which raised one of those questions that tends to nag at a fellow’s mind and keep him awake nights: why would Reed lie about getting a manicure and then slip off to a tattoo parlor? Because he was up to no good. Okay. But what particular category of “no good”? There were persistent rumors of drug dealing at Leadville Lily’s business establishment, but Scott Parris hadn’t been able to uncover any substantive evidence to lend credence to the gossip. Which don’t prove Lily’s not dealing. One thought daisy-chains to another. So maybe Reed has a habit. The simplest explanations were generally right on the mark.

  Even so, Charlie Moon was entertaining another, more compelling notion: From what I hear around town, Sam Reed’s one-man investment business is a lot more successful than the law of averages allows. The Ute’s dark brow furrowed into a thoughtful frown. So how does he manage that? Again, the obvious explanation was that the dealer in real estate, stocks, and commodities benefited from insider information. But considering the range of Reed’s investments, that would require a sizable network of paid informers. An operation like that would be extremely risky. Sooner or later, Sam Reed would get nailed by the SEC. Chances are, they’re already onto him, just biding their time until they’ve made a solid case. The best evidence would be incriminating conversations between the investor and his informers. But Reed would know this, and a sensible felon would go to considerable lengths to conceal his communications from the feds. Maybe he pays Lily to use her telephone. Moon shook his head. Federal attorneys fairly salivate at the thought of recorded conversations, where voices and telephone numbers can be identified. Reed might use Lily’s computer for sending and receiving coded e-mails. Not exactly bulletproof, but solid evidence would be harder to come by. And computer files are not the sort of proof that easily convinces a jury.

  Moon sighed his way back to the simplest explanation: I’m probably way off base. Chances are, Sam Reed went to Lily’s for the same reason most folks do—to get a tattoo. The rancher grinned as he imagined the middle-aged married man with a coiled rattlesnake inscribed on his chest. The grin begot a barely audible chuckle. Or maybe a girlfriend’s name on his arm…But that didn’t make much sense.

  Where on his body could a man hide an incriminating tattoo from his wife? Moon decided that a fellow’s options would be severely limited and did not bear thinking about. Realizing that his thoughts were meandering around aimlessly like a horse browsing on a sparse prairie, he decided to rein his ruminations in. And succeeded. More or less.

  With the intention of distracting himself from pointless musings, Charlie Moon removed the small flashlight from his pocket and began to examine the contents of the bedroom bookcase. On each of the four shelves, the volumes (with one notable exception) were arranged so that the spines were perfectly aligned. It was apparent from the titles that Sam Reed had selected all the books himself; there was hardly anything here that was likely to suit a lady’s taste. The Indian cowboy was delighted to spot a copy of J. B. Gillett’s Six Years with the Texas Rangers. The ardent reader’s trusty right hand was reaching for that delightful treasure when his gaze was pulled to another volume. Yes, the one that protruded ever so slightly from the neatly arranged row on the top shelf. The volume by David Deutsch spoke to him.

  No, really.

  This is what it said: You’ve already read that dusty old cowboy-and-Indians tale a half-dozen times, pardner. Have a gander at what’s between my covers—you’ll be mighty glad you did!

  Whether or not he would (be mighty glad) remains to be seen, but such a beguiling invitation is utterly compelling. Abandoning the trusty Gillett, Charlie Moon’s fingers left a gap where The Fabric of Reality had resided. After retiring to the parlor, seating himself in a comfortable armchair, turning on a small floor lamp, and turning two or three pages, the reader was hooked. After a few more, Moon was mesmerized. This was (he thought) the sort of reading that would elbow insignificant thoughts out of a man’s mind.

  Perhaps. It all depends on the man and the kind of mind he has—and which thoughts can properly be classified as insignificant.

  As Charlie Moon read the last few lines of the second chapter, he was beginning to feel uneasy. Now perched on a spruce branch just outside the guest apartment, the lonely saw-whet owl screeched her shrill whoop-whoop-whoop at the Ute. The reader was assaulted by an unseemly thought. One of those unsettling notions that comes from nowhere, like summer thunder booming from a clear-as-crystal sky. He attempted to dismiss the absurdity but could not quite let go of it. The pesky thing was trying to take him somewhere. Mr. Moon could not see around the dark corner and didn’t want to go there. He turned off the lamp, opened the window curtains, and tried to concentrate on the foam of a moonshine-twilight concoction that was flowing lightly through the window glazing and washing over the carpet.

  A wasted effort.

  The sinister possibility tiptoed its way back into the tribal investigator’s deliberations. It was one of those highly unlikely what-ifs, which was less like a thought than an insistent whispering in Moon’s ear: Here’s something to think about—what if Reed had his body tattooed so it could be positively identified?

  Moon shook his head. There were all sorts of ways for an ME to identify corpses. Like fingerprints, dental records, and DNA.

  Again, the whisper: Forget about medical examiners. Someone might need to ID Sam Reed’s carcass without the aid of modern forensic technology.

  Moon’s brow furrowed. Who?

  That’s for me to know and you to figure out. Think about it.

  The tribal investigator thought about it. Reed’s wife?

  As if by a flash of lightning at midnight, Moon’s mind’s eye was illuminated for an instant—then blinded by a still deeper darkness.

  He didn’t like what he’d seen in that brilliant instant. That’s plain crazy.

  Indeed it was. At the very least.

  The whisperer snickered. But is it crazy enough to be true?

  Moon stared at the book in his hand. What if weird things like that really do happen from time to time?

  The final whisper pierced his ear like an ice pick: What if weird things like that are happening all the time?

  The images conjured up by this sinister suggestion made Charlie Moon’s skin creep and crawl like a tribe of flesh-eating worms were wriggling under his epidermis and tucking napkins under their chins. Don’t start nit-picking. Imaginary worms can have chins if they want to.

  And napkins, too.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The Ladies He Left at Home

  Before departing for “three or four days,” Charlie Moon had directed Sarah Frank and Daisy Perika to call his mobile phone in case of emergency. The unspoken implication was as clear as the grim look on his craggy face—t
he tribal investigator had some unspecified but serious business to attend to; he would have no time for idle telephone chitchat.

  With the most important man in their lives absent, these were lonely days on the Columbine. The younger and the elder dealt with the void Moon had left behind, each in a manner befitting her personality.

  From first light until late at night when sleep finally would carry her away from her worries, Sarah mooned and fretted about her absent heartthrob. She also attended classes at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic, prepared meals for herself and Aunt Daisy, washed and dried dishes, got caught up on homework assignments, and generally kept busy and made herself useful. Whenever the young woman had a spare moment, she would pause and stare at a shadowy beamed ceiling or a turquoise-blue sky and wonder where the apple of her eye was right this minute, what Charlie was doing, and, most important—does he ever think about me?

  From time to time, when Charlie Moon wasn’t busy making sure that Samuel Reed lived to see the sun rise on the morning after his wife’s thirtieth birthday, he did think about the winsome Ute-Papago orphan. I hope the kid’s doing all right. And about his irascible aunt. I hope Daisy’s behaving like a normal little old lady. This was more like a private joke than a serious hope; Moon knew that he might as well wish for a patch of prickly-pear cactus to produce a crop of chocolate-coated strawberries.

  Unlike the mooning teenager, Daisy Perika had a more pressing problem to solve. It had to do with her violent assault on Chico Perez, whom she firmly believed was dead. It wasn’t that she was haunted by regrets; quite the contrary. Not only had it been a matter of self-defense and preventing a future assault on Sarah—knocking the rascal’s head in with her walking stick had been a gratifying experience. But life was not all about having a good time, and when the fun was over, a person needed to settle down and consider the carnage from a sober point of view. Which was why Daisy had been thinking about what the consequences might be when Perez’s corpse was discovered. She had no doubt that when the lurid story hit the newspapers and TV, Miss Muntz would guess who’d done the deed. Not that Millie would rat on me. Not deliberately. But that gabby white woman might let something slip. And what if someone had seen Miss M.’s car in the neighborhood that night and told the police about it? I bet there’s not another old Buick like that in the whole county. Cops were like bulldogs; one way or another they’d worm the truth out of Millicent Muntz. Daisy sighed. All I was trying to do was take his wallet back, but I don’t have a single witness to testify that I was fighting for my life. And now I’ve not only still got Chico Perez’s wallet, I’ve also got those other things. Like so many wacky notions born in the heat of passion, taking the battle trophies had seemed like a fine idea at the time. But if I get caught with any of it, I’m liable to get arrested. She sighed. Try to do the right thing and where does it get you? In serious trouble, that’s where. Life just isn’t fair.

  After much soul-searching and worrying, the apprehensive old soul made up her mind to dispose of the physical evidence. And the sooner the better. But not tonight; the thing must be done properly. I’ll need some time to figure out whether to bury the stuff. Charlie Moon’s aunt concluded that she must do some serious thinking. Which ominous development was, in itself, sufficient to cause spirited mares to kick at their stalls, tough cowboys to tremble in their sleep, and old hounds to awaken with startled snorts.

  All of which occurred (respectively) in the Columbine horse barn, beneath the roof of the forty-bed bunkhouse, and under the headquarters porch, where Sidewinder slept.

  Chapter Forty

  Evening, June 3

  A Close Encounter in Granite Creek

  More specifically—on Sand Hills Country Club property, of which institution Mrs. Bernice Aldershott was a member, and where she preferred to indulge in her nightly exercise on the golf course. The middle-aged lady, of sinewy build and iron will, was just short of her three-mile mark when—over Peggy Lee’s “I’m a Woman” vibrating the drum in her right ear canal—her left ear detected something out of the ordinary.

  The jogger stopped abruptly, lowered the volume on her iPod, and listened intently.

  Bernice heard a squeaky creaking. What on earth is that?

  Now a creaky squeaking.

  It seems to be coming from somewhere over there.

  (It would be helpful if the lady would be more precise.)

  Somewhere near the groundskeeper’s toolshed. What were the odds that someone would be working there after dark? Making it about twenty to one, the determined woman set her jaw and set about to investigate the source of all this confounded creaking and squeaking. Approaching the source of the mysterious sounds, she spied a dark something in the moonlight. The myopic woman squinted. Someone is definitely messing about at the toolshed.

  But who? And for what unseemly purpose?

  Like our other natural appetites, Curiosity demands to be satisfied.

  The plucky lady pressed ahead. And got a better look.

  Bernice’s lips made an 0. She whispered, “Oh my—someone is attempting to pry the shed door open with one of those whatchamacallits!” In an instant, the nighttime jogger realized that she had encountered Granite Creek’s infamous Whatchamacallit Burglar. What a glorious opportunity for a conscientious citizen to do her duty! Within a few heartbeats, she had her trusty mobile telephone in hand, punched in 911, and heard the graveyard-shift dispatcher’s snappy response. “Granite Creek Police—what is the nature of your emergency?”

  She whispered, “I’ve spotted the ne’er-do-well who everyone is talking about.” Or is it “whom” everyone is talking about? Doing one’s level best to be grammatically correct was so trying. “The fellow is trying to break into the shed with his whatchamacallit.”

  “His what?”

  “His whatchamacallit, dammit—you know what I mean!” Why can’t they hire people who understand English?

  “If you could describe—”

  “Oh, it’s one of those long thingamabobs with a hook on the end.” Bernice’s voice was teetering right on the ragged edge of shrillness.

  The dispatcher tried harder. “A hook, huh…like an old-fashioned walking cane?”

  “Well, I suppose it looks like one of those. But that’s not what it’s used for.” Explaining things to slow-witted men was irksome. “Carpenters use them to pry on things, and this miscreant is using his to break into the shed. And it’s made of iron.”

  “An iron shed?”

  “No.” The irate citizen held her breath and counted to three. “The thingamabob with the hook is made of iron.”

  The light began to dawn on the dispatcher. “You talking about a crowbar?”

  “Of course I am!” I wonder why they call them that. “Now would you please send a horde of club-waving constables to take this thieving vandal into custody?”

  “Yes ma’am. What’s your address?”

  “At a time like this, what on earth do you want to know that for?”

  “Well, so I can dispatch officers to your home and—”

  “I’m not at home, you nincompoop!”

  “What is your present location?”

  “I’m very near the thirteenth hole.”

  Three heartbeats.

  “You’re at the golf course, ma’am?”

  “Of course.” His brain must be the size of a peanut.

  The dispatcher’s tone betrayed his suspicion that the caller was under the influence of a chemical substance. “Uh, what’re you doing on the golf course this time of night?”

  “Practicing my putting!”

  “Oh.” Three more heartbeats. “You wearing one of them baseball caps with a little flashlight on it?”

  “No, I am not!” The fashion implications alone were horrid. “My remark about putting was an attempt at sarcasm. I’m jogging—or I was until I heard the creaky squeaking.”

  “Yes ma’am.” There’s an off chance she’s spotted the perp we’ve been looking for. “Hold on a sec.”

/>   Bernice Aldershott listened to the alleged Peanut Brain dispatch the nearest of two night-duty police units to the Sand Hills Country Club. He does seem to be marginally competent. Perhaps I was too hard on him.

  “A unit with two officers is on the way. ETA is about one minute.”

  “Thank you, young man. I suppose I am a bit nervous; and I do owe you an apology. I’m sorry I called you a nincompoop.”

  “Don’t give it a thought, ma’am. My mother-in-law calls me worse names than that. Now here’s what I want you to do. First of all, stay on the phone. And this is very important—don’t go near the suspect. You got that?” Silence. “Ma’am, are you there?” The GCPD dispatcher was talking to empty air.

  Officer Eddie Knox pulled their unit away from Chicky’s Daylight Doughnuts. His longtime partner, E. C. “Piggy” Slocum, was riding shotgun. (Yes. Same sawed-off twenty-gauge.)

  Knox was practically salivating at the thought of nabbing the Crowbar Burglar. “Nobody’s being threatened, Pig—so we’ll make our approach in stealthy mode. No siren, no lights.”

  “Okay with me, Eddie.” Having just finished off the next-to-last doughnut, Slocum wiped powdered sugar from his mouth onto his sleeve.

  Not quite a minute later, Knox eased the lights-out supercharged black-and-white Chevy into the country-club parking lot, cut the ignition, and pointed with his jutted chin. “The toolshed’s over yonder, behind that little grove of poplars.”