Snake Dreams

by James D. Doss

  The keys to Sarah’s F-150 pickup.

  The tribal investigator imagined what had happened: Jake Harper came here to get his girlfriend, broke into the gun cabinet, and stole the keys for Sarah’s truck. Nancy’s probably behind the F-150 wheel right now. Down the road someplace, they plan to ditch his hot Jeep—

  But wait a minute.

  Where are Daisy and Sarah? Moon’s hands were cold as marble. Maybe he took some hostages.

  Grim-faced as he had ever been, the tribal investigator holstered the heavy pistol and headed for the west porch. It’s my fault. I should have seen this coming. Oh, God—if Sarah and Daisy are still alive, please keep ’em that way till I can get there and—

  This prayer was interrupted by the sweetest sounds he had ever heard.

  Sarah’s outraged scream: “Hey—where’s my truck!”

  Daisy’s response: “One of them knot-head cowboys probably drove it into town to pick up a sportin’ woman at some smelly saloon with brass spittoons and sawdust on the floor.”

  Sidewinder: Two and a half barks, presumably to affirm his agreement with the Ute elder.

  The astonished females gawked at the tall, lean man in his stocking feet who burst through the door, leaped off the porch, and approached in a dead run to grab one of them in each arm.

  Tears streamed down Charlie Moon’s face.

  When Daisy—who had not been hugged that hard in her entire life—was finally able to extricate herself, she flailed her arms and squawked, “What the hell is going on?”

  Moon looked to the heavens and laughed. “Somebody stole Sarah’s pickup.”

  The old woman glowered at her nephew. “Well, why didn’t you say so right off—if we’d have known, me and the girl would’ve had us a good belly laugh too!”

  Twenty-Nine

  One Minute Later

  When the telephone jingled on the desk in his second-floor office, Scott Parris was enjoying a brand-new CD. It was an off-label issue and there were no instruments—the performers were a local female-male duo, and though neither one could hold a tune in a five-gallon bucket, their a cappella performance was gripping. The chief of police had expressly told the day dispatcher (a rookie), “No calls unless it’s my girlfriend or there’s a national emergency.” He pressed the Pause button on the CD player, snatched up the telephone, heard Moon’s deep voice booming at him.

  The abbreviated story that the rancher told might have been headlined CRIME ON THE COLUMBINE. Bottom line: firearms stolen, also a motor vehicle.

  Parris jotted notes on a yellow pad. “Got it, Charlie. Hold on a sec.” He punched the Intercom button, instructed dispatch to set up a GCPD roadblock twenty-five miles this side of the Columbine Ranch gate and to ask the state police to plug the jug on the other end. While the dispatcher was saying “yes sir” he shut off the intercom and jammed the telephone hard against his ear. “Please tell me that Sarah and Daisy are okay.” A pause while he did not breathe. “That’s great news, Charlie—and don’t you worry, we’ll arrest the Yazzi girl in a few minutes.” He chuckled. “Hey, how far can she get in that shiny red pickup?”

  Two issues are of interest.

  Number one: As it happened, the birthday pickup was farther along than Scott Parris had assumed. The roadblocks would be of no use.

  Number two: Note that the chief of police said, “Hey, how far can she get. . . .” Did Scott Parris assume that Nancy Yazzi was alone in the stolen vehicle? Yes indeed.

  As the chief of police would now inform Charlie Moon, the CD he had been listening to when the Ute called featured two “persons of interest” in the Hermann Wetzel homicide—i.e., Jake Harper and Nancy Yazzi. Shortly after Moon had departed to examine the carcass of the calf that had served as the cougar’s midnight snack, and at about the time that Daisy and Sarah had left for their educational outing along the river, Miss Yazzi had placed her seventh call to Mr. Harper. Six-plus-one was evidently her lucky number. On this occasion, after peering suspiciously at the caller ID, Mr. Harper had answered his cell phone. The following transcript (from official GCPD files) is a verbatim account of the brief exchange:

  “H’lo, Nance.”

  “Jakey—are you okay?”

  “Uh, yeah.” (Grunt.) “Where you callin’ from, Peachy Pie?”

  “I’m still at the Columbine Ranch. D’you know where that is?”

  “Sure.”

  “Look—I’ve got to get away from here.”

  “Uh—right.” (Burp.) “You want me to come get you tonight?”

  “No. I’ll have my own wheels. Now listen close, Jakey—I don’t want to say the name of the place on the phone, but let’s meet at that restaurant where you took me last Valentine’s Day.”

  Three-second pause.

  “Uh . . .”

  “Jakey!”

  “The McDonald’s down at Durango?”

  “No! Remember where we shared that great barbecue plate?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “I bet you haven’t forgot that redhead waitress who was old enough to be your momma. The slut was wearing a see-through blouse about the size of a dinner napkin. she called you ‘Honey Bunch.’ ”

  “Oh—right.”

  “You sure you know which place I’m talking about?”

  “Yeah. That damn barbecue kept me up half the night.”

  “I’ll meet you there. This afternoon.”

  “Okay, Peachy Pie.”

  “See you.”

  (Click.)

  (Click.)

  Thirty

  Where Has Nancy Gone in Sarah’s Pickup?

  Before addressing that pressing question, which is on the minds of Sarah Frank, Daisy Perika, Charlie Moon, Chief of Police Scott Parris, and a dozen GCPD coppers plus enough Colorado State Police to fill every Dunkin’ Donuts in Denver, Colorado Springs, Pueblo—and Crested Butte to boot—let us back up a few minutes.

  At the instant when Scott Parris and Charlie Moon terminated their telephone conversation, Miss Yazzi, having already passed through Granite Creek, was precisely 12.3 miles south of that fair city.

  But that had been twenty-two minutes ago. At present, she was 36.1 miles south of Granite Creek, turning off the main highway onto a “scenic byway” that would take her into an unpleasant little depression between the mountains that hopeful locals call Pleasant Valley. After winding along the north bank of a meager little stream, the red pickup crossed into the adjacent county, which was named after one Zebulon Montgomery Pike, who also had a sizable mountain peak named after his fine self.

  In this new jurisdiction, the road abruptly changed from “blacktop with potholes” to “gravel with bigger potholes.” By and by, Nancy Y found herself a straight place in the road that extended to yon cloud-shrouded ridge. Her destination was a forlorn little hamlet known by folks thereabouts as Hamlet’s Crossroads. At this intersection of gravel lanes, there were four cinder-block buildings, each occupying its assigned quadrant. Hamlet’s Service Station. Hamlet’s Stop-n-Shop. Hamlet’s Barber Shop. Hamlet’s Cowboy Saloon. The proud owner of this prosperous quartet was one Hamlet Anderson, aka “Ham.” Of particular interest to Nancy was the latter enterprise, which served fair-to-middling barbecue.

  She braked the F-150, eyed the motley assembly of motor vehicles scattered higgledy-piggledy about the Cowboy Saloon. There was the predicable selection of pickups, ranging from a 1957 Chevy that had been brush-painted a dreadful shade of green to a brand-new Dodge with dual rear wheels and chrome exhausts. Also a big GMC stake-bed, a 1964 red-and-white VW bus, a white Qwest Communications van, a matched pair of black Harley-Davidson hogs, and . . . a nifty little Ford SUV that seemed oddly out of place. Nancy did not notice the Escape. The intended object of her intense concentration was Jake Harper’s Jeep—which was not present and accounted for.

  Quick intake of breath as she turned into the dirt driveway, parked beside the Harleys. Maybe Jake changed his mind and isn’t coming after all. Or maybe he’s just late, like he usually
is. She cut the ignition. I’ll just have to wait for him.

  Her wait would not be a lengthy one.

  The engine had barely shut down when Mr. Harper opened the driver-side door and slipped in beside her. “Hi ya, Peachy Pie!”

  Nancy let out a squeaky little shriek. “Jakey—where’d you come from?”

  Being somewhat of a wit, he was sorely tempted to reply, Fort Worth, which was the city of his birth. Instead, he said, “I been here for almost an hour.”

  She looked around the parking lot. “Where’s your Jeep?”

  “That Wrangler’s hot as two-dollar pistol. I got it stashed where I’ve been holed up.”

  “What’re you driving?”

  “Something I found in a garage.” He patted the seat. “Where’d you get this nice truck?”

  “I borrowed it.”

  “From who?”

  Suddenly confronted by the image of an outraged Sarah Frank, Nancy felt a pang of guilt. “From a friend.”

  “Wish I had a friend like that.” Harper scratched his beard. “Why’re you wearing that great big raincoat?” This was not an idle query. It was not raining, and the man had not seen his main squeeze for some days now and just as many nights, and it irked him that the shapely form was concealed in the bulky covering.

  Ignoring this reasonable question, Main Squeeze posed one of her own: “Did you find Hermann’s money under the heat thingy?”

  “Uh . . . afraid not.” Harper felt his face blush. “Way things turned out, there wasn’t time to look. I’d just got into the house when the shooting started and—”

  “Shut up, Jake!”

  Unless your companion is deaf, and Nancy’s was definitely not, it is unnecessary to produce a 160-decibel remark inside the smallish cab of a standard F-150 pickup. The lady’s screech caused Jake’s left ear to ring, his diastolic pressure to rise, and blood to pool in his eyes. He turned a bushy-browed scowl on his sweetheart.

  She lowered the volume. “I’m sorry, Jakey. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

  They both knew that this was not 100 percent true.

  Even so, Mr. Harper was mollified by the gesture. “That’s all right, Nance.” To demonstrate his sincerity, he leaned over to give her a little kiss on the cheek.

  She turned, planted a big one square on his mouth. After their lips were disengaged, Nancy used hers to speak as softly as that proverbial warm twilight breeze which barely rustles willow leaves. “Jakey, I’m glad you killed Hermann, but I don’t want to hear a single word about it.” The sly woman-child cunningly twisted a lock of his scruffy beard into a stringy little strand. “Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Don’t ‘but’ me, Jake!” She yanked the beard, pointed a sharp fingernail at his left eyeball. “Just try to wrap your brain around this one simple fact.” Hermann Wetzel’s stepdaughter spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable. “I don’t want to know anything about the shooting.”

  “Well, all right—” Jake Harper caught himself barely in time to avoid committing another but. But he was no dunce and he understood well enough. Nancy’s afraid I might tell her something she don’t want to know and then she might became a . . . What was that fancy legal lingo the TV lawyers used? An excessory after the fax? No, that don’t sound right.

  She shifted quickly to another subject: “So where’ve you been hiding out?”

  “Some rich guy’s house up on Muleshoe Mountain.”

  She blinked. Even Jake can’t be that dumb. “So close to Granite Creek?”

  “It’s a great place to hole up—loaded with fancy food and top-rate booze.” He pointed at the Escape. “And the nice rich dude lent me his car.” To this small piece of wit, Jake appended a small chuckle.

  Nancy Yazzi drew in a deep breath. “Since that night—have you talked to anyone besides me?”

  He grinned at this unfathomable female “Like who, Peachy Pie?”

  “Oh, one of your buddies. Spike, maybe. Or Spider.”

  “Nah, I don’t trust them bozos.” Harper snorted. “If there was a ten-dollar reward out on me, they’d give me up faster’n you could say ‘Peter Pepper picked a pint of pickled pipers.’ ”

  “Then you didn’t telephone anyone?”

  “Nah.”

  “Not even your mother?”

  “Nope.” Momma ever sees me again, she’ll probably throw a brick at me.

  “Or your sister?”

  “Huh-uh.” I owe Sis nine hundred bucks.

  “How about your wife in Waco?”

  “Lulabelle don’t live in Waco. Her and the kids have a double-wide down at Kerr—” Oops.

  Thirty-One

  Mr. Harper Finds Himself in a Spot of Difficulty

  Whatever his shortcomings, and the list was a lengthy one, Jake Harper was not a coward. Far from it. He had been in a dozen hard-knuckle bar brawls, and he generally came out on top. But the tough guy had a strong instinct for survival, which at this instant was shouting inside his head, Make a false move, you’re dead!

  His girlfriend had a six-gun in her hands. And not of a small caliber. This was what is known in the trade as a Great Big Number. He rightly deduced that she had produced the heavy-duty shooting iron from somewhere in the bulky raincoat.

  “Uh, Nance—”

  “Don’t ‘Nance’ me, you two-bit . . .” Searching for just the right word, she furrowed her brow. It came to her. “You two-bit gigolo!”

  “What?”

  It was not that he required clarification. What Mr. Harper wanted more than all the gold in Fort Knox was to get out of the pickup without a perforation in his hide, and extending the conversation seemed to be the best means of accomplishing that objective.

  It was not.

  Click! This was Mr. Six-Shooter’s way of saying howdy.

  Nancy Yazzi had just cocked the thing, which, because it was a double-action machine, was not absolutely necessary. But it was absolutely terrifying.

  Jake did not wish to be present to hear the next (very loud) word uttered by the .44, which would be the Big Goodbye. He made a desperate grab for the door, heard the thunder roar, and hit the ground to scuttle away on all fours. In the cover of the phone-company van, the fleeing man got onto his hind legs and made a remarkable sprint for a heavyset fellow.

  Going now for the one-handed shot, Nancy stuck her left arm out the driver-side door and pointed the barrel more or less in Jake’s direction. She pulled the trigger five more times to empty the cylinder. The first shot went into the sky; the second punctured a rear tire in the VW bus; the third went into Hamlet’s rooftop sign (neatly drilling a bull’s-eye in the second o of COWBOY); the fourth went through a window screen, across the saloon and over the bar, passed close to Ham’s right ear, and smashed a full bottle of Jack Daniel’s, which exploded just as the object of the shooter’s fury banged through the swinging front doors to flail his way across the barroom floor, knocking chairs, tables, filthy spittoons, and startled patrons aside as if he were the Father of All Bowling Balls and they were balsa-wood tenpins.

  The fifth slug? Where that one ended up is anyone’s guess.

  Nancy had additional armament behind the seat in the pickup. When the young woman toting a double-barrel shotgun came dashing in after her terrified boyfriend, things began to get downright interesting.

  Big-hatted cowboys, sooty coal miners, sweaty oil-field roughnecks, a painted lady of questionable character, and a nice young couple from Hot Springs, Arkansas, who had stopped to soak up some “local color” scattered for the nearest exits and hiding places. Some of those who were already bellied up to the bar scrambled over the top to join Ham, who was facedown on the floor. Others dived out of windows and a few followed Jake, who had made a beeline for the kitchen. Six fellows who were about to lose their water managed to get inside the men’s room, which was about twice the size of an old-fashioned telephone booth. Four panic-stricken gents pushed their way into the ladies’ facility only to meet an
outraged, middle-aged señorita who punched one in the nose and took to swinging her purse at the others—

  BUT THIS is altogether too much. The skin is flushed, the mind boggles, the pulse races, the blood pressure surges, the breath comes in short gasps. One needs a respite from these frenetic activities—a brief interlude of peace. What is called for is a visit to a park with serene paths that meander among stately maples in whose leafy boughs perky little bluebirds are all atwitter. But there is no such place in Pike County, Colorado. We shall go for second best, which is a visit with an elderly lady who is entirely sane, faultlessly honest, and is not known in the community for pursuing violent activities, such as shooting sprees with a passionate intent toward homicide. No, Daisy Perika does not qualify.

  We refer to Miss Millicent Muntz.

  BACK IN Granite Creek, quite comfy inside her cozy abode at 751 Beechwood Road, the respectable bespectacled lady sits (primly, as you would expect) in an overstuffed mauve armchair, a small volume in her hand. The Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson.

  Miss Muntz reads aloud to Mr. Moriarty from a favorite piece. Something about the bleakness of her lot.

  The cat, sprawled in his usual habitat (the basket-bed), does not respond with any noticeable enthusiasm. It is possible that, being of the male persuasion, the feline would have preferred the manly verse of Robert Service.

  THERE. WAS that not a pleasant diversion? With the mind now at rest the pulse rate and blood pressure once again within the proper brackets, and breath coming easily, let us return to the fray.

  FOUR OTHERS pushed their way into the ladies’ facility, only to meet an outraged, middle-aged señorita who punched one in the nose and took to swinging her purse at the others—

  But let us dispense with these not-so-innocent bystanders and concentrate on the principal characters.

  Watch Jake Harper come a-running out the back door of Hamlet’s Cowboy Saloon, make a hard left around the corner of the cinder-block building, and hotfoot it to the Escape, whose name had never seemed so appropriate.