TWENTY-THREE
Parris was musing about Daisy’s “vision,” when the connection bubbled up from his subconscious. He practically ran to his squad car, and was banging on Walter Simpson’s door within ten minutes.
Simpson, somewhat bleary-eyed, opened the door. The medical examiner muttered something about “never a moment’s rest” under his breath; he waved Parris in without a word of welcome and pointed to an overstuffed green chair. Parris ignored the chair. “What’s the matter, Doc? I interrupt your afternoon nap?”
“What’s the matter,” the old man replied gruffly, “is that I’m getting old. And tired. What misfortune brings you to my door?”
“I want to talk. About the corpse.”
Simpson waved his hand impatiently. “I got four bodies in cold storage downstairs. Which one interests you?”
“You know very well which one.” Parris couldn’t bring himself to speak her name; Priscilla’s shade already cast its shadow over his sleep. “About some of your findings…”
“The student?” The medical examiner sat down heavily in an antique rocking chair. Parris was surprised that the old furniture didn’t break. “Which findings?”
The policeman hovered over him. “You found traces of adhesive between her breasts. Like something might have been taped to her skin.”
“That’s right. On the dermis over the sternal angle.”
“You said you found odd marks in the roof of her mouth.”
Simpson was gradually waking up and taking an interest. “Small abrasions on the palatum mole. The soft palate.”
“Then there were the senseless mutilations. They may not have been senseless after all.”
The old physician cocked his head and squinted one eye. “Go on.”
“Look at it like this. The girl was murdered by someone who wanted something she had taped to her chest. It could have been a small container, maybe holding three samples of a superconductor.”
The hint of a suspicious grin crinkled the edges of Simpson’s lips. “Why three?”
“I have an informer.” He wouldn’t mention Daisy’s dream; Simpson would laugh him out of town. “Anyway, she was determined that her killer wouldn’t have them.”
“So,” Simpson interjected, “she upped and swallowed the stuff?”
“You got it. She tried to swallow them all. We know she was strangled. Let’s assume she coughs up two of the samples, but her killer knows, or at least suspects, she didn’t spit them all up.”
Doc was rocking as he gazed thoughtfully at the Tiffany lamp on the table by his chair. “So he cuts her open to find what might have been swallowed.”
“I think that’s what happened.”
“You don’t just think. You know something you’re not telling your favorite medical examiner.”
“You’d laugh your fool head off. I’ll tell you later. Sometime when we’re fishing and I’m in a mood to take some of your abuse.”
“Fair enough. But I should remind you I already examined the stomach contents. There wasn’t anything there you wouldn’t expect to find.”
Simpson watched Scott’s face drop. “Then there was nothing…”
“Oh, I didn’t exactly say there was nothing. Just nothing in her stomach or large intestine. It’s standard procedure to examine stomach contents. Tells your trusty medical examiner lots of important stuff you cops want to know, like when the victim had her last meal, what she ate, maybe even where she ate.”
“Then where…”
“It’s a long way from your mouth to your stomach. The trip goes by way of the Pars oralis pharyngis, then the—”
“Try speaking English.”
The medical examiner assumed a hurt expression. “If you insist, but it spoils the mystique. Let’s say that whatever she swallowed, if she swallowed anything, might have lodged in her throat or esophagus.”
“And her killer didn’t look there?”
“Murderers, much like your average police administrators, have little knowledge of anatomy. Much like children, actually.”
“But you’ll take a look? You do still have the body.”
Simpson pushed himself up from the rocking chair. “No one has made funeral arrangements. She’s still in the icebox. I’ll do it right now. Want to come along?”
“Thanks. I’d rather sit here and stare at the wallpaper. Wonderful pattern. All those little yellow flowers.”
Parris watched the minute hand on the massive grandfather clock. It was almost a half hour before Simpson returned, wiping his hands on a green towel.
“So. Did you find anything?”
Simpson had a twinkle in his eye. “Oh, nothing much. Except this.” He flipped the disk like a coin, and Scott Parris caught it. It was a dead ringer for the picture of the mystery scientist’s superconductor sample in Time magazine. Simpson was watching his guest with great interest. “Now why would the Mexican disembowel his victim to get something like that?”
Parris was mesmerized by the small black disk in his hand. “Why indeed?”
* * *
Eddie “Rocks” Knox had a hunch. It was enough to send him far off his assigned patrol onto a rough national forest fire road east of town. The road was also the access to a few cabins inhabited during the season by hunters of elk and deer. The road made little sense as an escape route for the Mexican, since it deadended halfway around the mountain. It made sense that Pacheco, who knew his way around these parts, wouldn’t box himself in. But Knox had a feeling. It tickled his gut; it pumped adrenaline, it disturbed his sleep. It was an itch he had to scratch. He stopped at every dirt lane that led to a cabin and got out of the squad car and onto his knees to inspect the dry, hard-packed lanes for signs that someone had driven over them in the past few days. His lower back was complaining and his knees were sore when he found faint traces on the lane to a new log cabin that was hidden from view behind a heavy stand of blue spruce. At first, he noticed a single lump of gravel that had been overturned. The earth where the stone had been was unmistakably fresh. Knox walked slowly along the lane until he found a dusty spot. Tread marks! The policeman felt his pulse rising, throbbing in his neck. It was the same all-weather radial tread used on all the patrol cars in the Granite Creek PD. The Mexican had not yet dumped the stolen squad car. As he approached the cabin, the policeman’s nostrils picked up an unmistakable hint of wood smoke. Sergeant Knox made a wide circle around the structure, taking care not to expose himself to a view from any of the three windows. He was so careful to keep his eyes on the cabin that he almost stumbled into the squad car, hidden in a shallow ravine. It was partially covered with boughs of spruce. He thought about disabling the stolen squad car, then hesitated. Another plan was forming in his mind, a plan that was sweeping in its implications.
The Mexican had holed up in the cabin, and that called for specific actions. The specter of standard operating procedure momentarily visited Knox’s consciousness. The appropriate thing to do would be to call in his findings, request backup, then wait quietly on the main road. The city would call in the state troopers to augment the Granite Creek PD. Within an hour, they would have a ring formed around the cabin; the Mexican would have no way out. Knox dismissed the thought. That, he reasoned, would take all the fun out of it. There was a better way. Eddie “Rocks” returned to his squad car, opened the door quietly, and pressed the button on his microphone. “Car Seven. You read me okay?”
“You’re coming in ten-two,” Clara said. “You breaking for lunch?”
“No. I’m near the end of Twelve-Mile Road. May have had a break-in at that new log cabin, the one near the old silver mine. Goin’ to have a look-see.”
“I’ll send backup. Leggett is available.”
“Don’t bother. Looks like whoever broke in is long gone. Routine stuff. I’ll call back in a half hour or so.”
There was a slight hesitation before she signed off.
Knox withdrew an envelope from his inside coat pocket, removed the official r
eport for the tenth time, and read it carefully. No, there was no mistake. But they were wrong, all of them. There was a remedy. He removed the twelve-gauge shotgun from the trunk and pumped five slug loads into the magazine. He hadn’t felt so happy, so absolutely alive since his doctor had given him the grim report.
The policeman inspected the cartridges in his automatic. He removed the regulation nine-millimeter loads and replaced them with illegal hollow-points from a stash in his inside jacket pocket. He would be careful to give the Mexican a chance, but he didn’t intend to take the escapee back alive. A simple surrender would be anticlimactic, a waste of a golden opportunity. The man in the cabin was armed with Piggy’s .357 Magnum. This was going to be an encounter to remember. For one of them. Knox was moved with a mystic sense of ecstasy; tears rolled down his cheeks as he silently thanked God for this wonderful opportunity. No one at the station knew about this facet of his character: Eddie Knox was an incurable romantic.
TWENTY-FOUR
Clara stared intently at the microphone as if she could see Eddie Knox, alone in a dark mountain forest of spruce and pine. Eddie had inspected the cabins only last Friday. The cabin check was on the schedule for once every month. Eddie’s story smelled … well, funny. She turned to Leggett. “You hear that conversation with Knox?”
Leggett didn’t look up from his paperwork. “Uh-huh. Sounded routine enough.”
“You better go check on him. Eddie’s got something treed.”
It was not a suggestion. Lieutenant Leggett, who considerably outranked the dispatcher, considered her worried expression thoughtfully. He put on his hat and jacket and left without a word.
* * *
Julio Pacheco was eating a breakfast of canned bean soup with moldy saltine crackers when he heard the voice. “Hello in the cabin!” Pacheco dropped the spoon and pulled the revolver from his belt.
“I know you’re in there, Messican. Now you lissen close, ’cause I won’t repeat myself. I called my position in, but I didn’t tell ’em you was holed up here. Station thinks it’s a simple break-in investigation, but if I don’t report back in, say, thirty or forty minutes, they’ll start callin’ on the radio. When I don’t answer, they’ll send someone up to check on me. Then your ass’ll be in a sling sure enough. I figure you got an hour to get out of here, maybe a few minutes more.”
Pacheco’s finger played over the trigger; he looked through the curtain to see the man who challenged him. He couldn’t see the man, but the voice was familiar. It was the strange man the other cops called “Rocks.”
The disembodied voice boomed out again. “Now here is the way it is, wetback. You got yourself three choices. First, you can wait inside until the troops arrive. You surrender, we’ll take you back to jail. Number two, you can slip out the back way. If I don’t spot you and blow your little ass off, we’ll put the dogs on you. With the bloodhounds, I’d guess we’ll pick you up before it gets good dark.”
Pacheco imagined the dogs … long yellow teeth in gaping mouths. He felt cold and suppressed a shudder.
“Then, you got your third choice.” There was a slight pause. “This here third one, it’s my favorite. You walk out the front door, you and me go head-to-head. If you’re man enough to take me out, you drive away before they get suspicious down at headquarters. If I was you, I’d take number three.” Another pause. “Course, you ain’t nothin’ like me, you little cockroach!”
Pacheco smiled ruefully. This man was worthy of his reputation for absolute fearlessness. Stupid, maybe, but a man you had to respect. He cupped his hand beside his mouth. “Hey, you dumb-assed gringo. I hear you ain’t had no sex since your little sister ran away from home!”
Eddie “Rocks” released the safety on his pump shotgun and laughed out loud. “Come on out, you little donkey fart,” he yelled, “and I’ll get you ready for the undertaker!” With this, Knox left his cover behind a sandstone boulder and moved directly into view. He stood, legs planted firmly apart, in the middle of the lane. Pacheco licked his lips. Somewhere over fifty yards. Not a hard shot, but not a sure thing by any measure. He had no doubt that the crazy policeman was telling the truth. Knox was by himself. If the other cops were along, they would never let him expose himself like this. It was to be an honest contest. An encounter between two men who were willing to face death for the privilege of playing the game. Pacheco sensed that this man was, in some mystic way, his brother.
Julio opened the cabin door and stepped onto the rough-hewn plank floor of the porch. Eddie Knox raised the shotgun barrel to waist level. Pacheco held the revolver at arm’s length and squinted one eye as he drew a bead on the policeman. “You’re dumber than a stump, man. You can’t kill me with a shotgun at this range.”
“Loaded with slugs” was the calm reply.
Pacheco felt his stomach lurch. Those slugs could tear a hole through your gut big enough to drop a fence post through. “Still a long shot,” Pacheco called out, struggling to match Knox’s confident tone.
“Hell, Messican, life’s a long shot. But tell you what; since I figure you couldn’t hit a number ten tub with a ball bat, I’ll give you first shot if you don’t get too much closer. Then I’ll put one through your liver and you can go join your worthless ancestors. Now if that ain’t a sportin’ proposition, you can file a grievance on me.”
Pacheco stepped off the porch, plotting, calculating. “How much closer can I get for my first shot, Mr. Rocks?”
“Keep on a-comin’, you silly sumbitch. You take one step too close, I’ll let you know.” Knox chuckled. “Now go on … admit it! Ain’t this more fun than ridin’ that big rolley coaster up in Denver?”
“I’m having myself a fine time.” Pacheco took a half dozen deliberate steps toward his adversary; he thought he saw the muscles in Eddie’s face tighten. Pacheco fell forward to a prone position and got off one shot as he hit the ground—a wide miss. The crazy policeman was smiling, but he didn’t budge from his position in the middle of the lane as he pulled the trigger. There was a booming report; the slug kicked dust into Pacheco’s face. Pacheco squeezed the trigger on the revolver. He saw Knox spin and tumble as the Magnum slug crashed through the policeman’s leg.
Knox was on the ground. His right leg felt like a heavy hitter had swung a Louisville Slugger into his thigh. There was considerable pain, but it was manageable. He watched the arterial blood squirting a scarlet arc halfway across the dusty lane. Artery severed. Time was short. Maybe a few minutes at the outside before his blood pressure would drop to a level where the brain would slip into half-life, then forever into darkness. He couldn’t see the shotgun, then realized it was underneath his body. From his peripheral vision, he saw Julio Pacheco approaching. The officer withdrew his mostly plastic Glock nine-millimeter automatic from its holster and rolled away. Another .44 Magnum slug blew a trench in the road, inches from his face. He squinted to focus on his target, but the Mexican was a blur. Then there were three Mexicans. Sergeant Knox aimed at the middle Mexican and pulled the trigger three times. Then he drifted off into a dark, silent void. He was thinking that if he had his life to live over again, he would give up chewing tobacco. Maybe take up snuff.
* * *
Parris looked up and saw Clara Tavishuts standing in the doorway. He had never seen such pain on the Ute woman’s face. “Leggett just called in from Twelve-Mile Road. Knox is down.”
* * *
He met Leggett at the emergency entrance to Presbyterian Community Hospital. The young officer was shaken. He wouldn’t look at Parris as he turned his hat in his hands. “Eddie … he’s lost a lot of blood. Barely found a pulse. He’ll lose his leg for sure.”
“Damn, damn,” Parris muttered.
Leggett stuck his hand out. “Look at what I found in his pocket.”
Parris read the report from Granite Creek Pathology, Ltd. It was a long moment before their eyes met. Parris cleared his throat. “Says here Knox had something called melanoma.”
Leggett wiped at his eyes. “
Eddie must have flipped out when he found out he had cancer. That’s why he didn’t call for some help. Wanted to die up there on the mountain.”
This was too much to digest in one sitting. First things first. Parris clamped a hand on Leggett’s shoulder. “Any notion who shot him?”
“It was Pacheco, probably with the sidearm he took from Piggy. He abandoned Car Three when he ran out of gas a couple of miles from the site of the shooting, but we’ll get him for sure.”
The chief was surprised at this; Leggett was usually cautious in his predictions. “How can you be so certain?”
The lieutenant’s face was like stone. “Rocks got off some shots; at least one connected. We found blood where Pacheco left the car. He’s wounded; can’t get far in that country.”
Parris shook his head doubtfully. “Julio Pacheco is resourceful. We can’t take any chances that he flies the coop this time, not with an officer shot. Call up that old guy in Pagosa who owns the bloodhounds and rent the whole bunch of them, the ones that sniff and the bad ones that like to chew on what they catch. We’ll turn the damned dogs loose on him.”
At that very instant, somewhere deep in a mountain ravine, Julio Pacheco stopped, examined the wound where Knox’s slug had penetrated his abdomen, and glanced back over his shoulder. For the first time since he was a child, and for reasons he could not comprehend, Julio shuddered in cold animal fear.
* * *
Parris pressed the telephone receiver against his ear so hard, it hurt. “You did get the sample from the victim’s esophagus? The courier swore he’d have it in your hands by ten this morning.” He waited for Otto Proctor’s reply.
The Shaman Sings (Charlie Moon Mysteries) Page 17
