Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  Dr. Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe didn’t have a worry in his head. What, exactly, he did have between his ears was something of a mystery. On account of the fact that he was sometimes heard having a conversation with someone who wasn’t there, the orthodontist was considered by his two partners-in-crime to be mildly eccentric seven days a week—and on occasion, a borderline lunatic. He had, in fact, been diagnosed by various professionals as schizophrenic, manic-depressive, bipolar, possibly even the possessor of a multiple-personality disorder. These modest shortcomings had not disqualified him from participating in the current project, which no completely sane person would have considered for a millisecond. Blissfully unaware that he harbored even the slightest flaw, Blinkoe considered himself a genius with a flair for the romantic. And having inherited a considerable fortune from his mother, he was not doing this for the cash. Like virtue, adventure was its own reward.

  At the moment, the wealthy eccentric-lunatic-genius-romantic was perched in the sooty-black Humvee, immediately behind a tripod-mounted M2 .50-caliber Browning machine gun. The deadly apparatus was fitted with a superb night-vision scope. Having checked and aligned the metal-link ammunition belt, he adjusted the focus on the Starlite optics, watched a lime-tinted coyote lope along a rocky out-cropping 160 yards away. What an easy shot that would be. To resist the absurd temptation, Blinkoe elevated the air-cooled barrel, squinted at a clearing in the cloudy sky. Countless points of green light winked and blinked at him. Nothing but stars and silence. It must be a lot like this on the dark side of the moon.

  The stillness was cut by a sharp click-clack as Feliciano pumped a 12-gauge buckshot load into the chamber of his favorite shotgun. This mechanical statement was followed by the soft sound of his voice. “If Pappy took off on time, the DC-3 should be about ten minutes away.”

  This produced a grunt from Blinkoe.

  In the starlight, Feliciano could barely make out the clumps of creosote bush, smoke tree, and snakeweed, but their piquant scents wafted past his nose. He didn’t care for the smells. Feliciano had never liked the desert or anything that came with it. Imagining the sands to be crawling with sidewinders, scorpions, and tarantulas, he mused about which he loathed the most. Decided on the hairy spiders. There was something eerie in the deliberate, arrogant way they walked. He looked at the Humvee, blinked at the crazy Anglo’s thick profile. “If these hombres figure out Pappy Hitchcock’s landed ’em on the wrong side of that Mexican border, there’s going to be serious hell to pay.”

  “You said it.” About ten times you said it, just in the last hour. “But don’t fret, my melodramatic friend.” Blinkoe took a grip on the Browning, made a wide turn on the tripod. “I can chop down big trees with this bad machine, and I’ll make bloody hamburger out of those—”

  “Shhhh!” The Colombian turncoat was holding a finger to his lips.

  Off to the north, there was an uneven thrumming of engines, the whir of propellers whacking off dark slices of midnight.

  Feliciano pointed his shotgun in the general direction of the approaching aircraft, went through the drill for the gringo’s benefit. “Soon as he’s over Apache Butte, I’ll switch on the runway lights. After that old crate rolls to a stop, I’ll give the dot-dash signal with my flashlight. There’ll be five, maybe six of my countrymen on board, and I’m the contact they’ll expect to see. After most of ’em have their boots on the ground, I’ll hit the dirt and take the first shot. That’s your signal to spray ’em with the machine gun. Pappy’ll take out any that’re still on the plane. But don’t you stop firing till the last of those banditos are dead.” The soldier of misfortune checked his sidearm. And just to make sure, I’ll see that every one of ’em gets a shot to the head.

  Blinkoe felt a sharp pain in his lower back, a sudden surge of fear. Take it easy. It’s not what you think it is—probably just a muscle spasm. Buoyed by these self-reassuring assertions, he squinted through the scope. “Pablo, this is going to be too easy—a real turkey shoot.”

  Maybe he’s right. Worrier though he was, Feliciano’s favorite superstition had to do with how merely saying something could make it happen. He took a deep breath, nodded in the darkness. “Everything’ll work out just fine.”

  It would be gratifying to report that the bold trio’s optimism was justified by the subsequent course of events—one prefers to see the habitual losers win one now and then. And things did get off to a fairly good start.

  As the DC-3 approached, the jury-rigged landing lights switched on without a hitch.

  The venerable World War II aircraft touched down, bumped along the desert hardpan to a lurching halt.

  The prearranged flashlight signal was given, accepted as genuine.

  The Colombians evacuated the airplane with no more than normal caution.

  After shouting an enthusiastic greeting to his betrayed comrades, Feliciano hit the ground, Blinkoe laid into them with Mr. Browning’s supremely efficient killing machine. Two of the cartel soldiers managed to return fire, but the .50-caliber scythe cut them all down like noxious weeds.

  The noisy part was over in less time than it takes to tell about it.

  But the barbarous business was far from finished.

  It was, in fact, just getting started.

  Having been smited hip and thigh with lumps of lead, Mr. Hitchcock would be denied what he wanted most of all. Before the flood of dawn had washed away the last smudge of night, the pilot’s blood-soaked body would be rolled into a remote arroyo, left there to rot.

  Only weeks later—having slit a farmer’s throat for stealing his girlfriend’s spotted billy goat—Señor Feliciano would end up in a Mexican jail. But not for long.

  Having taken himself a remarkably pretty young wife, Dr. Blinkoe would live in constant fear for his life.

  2

  Fourteen Months Later Granite Creek, Colorado

  As the accumulation of many winters pressed heavily upon her, Daisy Perika had become set in her ways. The Ute elder was a contented recluse; the mere thought of being far away from her little home at the mouth of Cañón del Espíritu made her shudder. On those occasions when she took a meal in town, Daisy preferred Angel’s Cafe in Ignacio or Texas-Bob’s Barbecue in Durango. But here she was—almost a hundred miles to the north, in Granite Creek—seated at a fancy, linen-covered table in the Stockman’s Hotel Restaurant. The shrunken woman was flanked by two sizable men—Southern Ute Tribal Investigator Charlie Moon and Granite Creek Chief of Police Scott Parris. It would have been perfect, except for the fact that FBI Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague was seated directly across from Daisy, who had noticed how the pretty white woman was eyeing her nephew. Worst of all, Charlie was eyeing her right back. Daisy’s face was set like granite. I’ll just pretend that she’s not here.

  The table’s delectable centerpiece was a three-layer strawberry jam cake, its inch-thick pink icing dotted with dozens of red candles. While they watched, Daisy opened her birthday presents.

  Charlie’s gift was a satellite telephone. It was astonishingly small and came with a nylon cord so she could hang it around her neck like a pendant.

  Daisy Perika muttered her thanks for the gadget, which she thought resembled a fancy dog collar. When her nephew demonstrated how the thing worked, she grumbled that she could barely make out the tiny labels by the brightly colored buttons, much less read the script on the narrow little gray strip that served as a monitor.

  Charlie assured his aunt that he had programmed in all the numbers she would need for an emergency. At the press of this button she would get 911, that one would ring his ranch landline, another one his cell phone. Wearing his now-pay-attention-because-I-am-dead-serious expression, he made it known that he expected her to wear the high-tech communications device all the time. Even when she was taking a bath. Especially when she was out walking in the wild canyon country around her home.

  She solemnly vowed that she would and immediately dismissed the promise from her mind.

  Scott’s gift wa
s an ebony cane; the head was a hand-carved soapstone owl. This would be nice for going to church, she told him. Daisy had a special affection for the white man, who was her nephew’s best friend. She reached over to pat the matukach on the arm.

  The FBI woman had brought her a lovely parcel—wrapped in embroidered white cotton, tied with a ribbon of Japanese silk. Daisy discovered a lovely Spanish shawl inside, gave it a once-over. It’s probably a Chinese knockoff. While everyone watched, the shameless old woman found the label, squinted hard at it. Barcelona. Well. I guess she’s trying to impress me. Which just went to show how calculating and sneaky these men-hunting white women could be.

  A Portuguese waiter with the willowy frame of a bullfighter appeared, touched each candle on the cake with a butane wand. Completion of this operation took quite some time.

  “Oh, my—look at that.” The flames danced in Daisy’s eyes. “There’s way too many to blow out.”

  Lila Mae smiled. “Then let them burn.”

  Daisy pretended not to hear.

  The FBI agent felt the slight. It was her face that burned.

  By nature oblivious to petty thoughts or malicious intentions, Moon looped a long arm around his shriveled aunt. “Time to make a wish.”

  The ancient woman closed her eyes, shook her gray head. “Oh, God—I wish I was eighty again.”

  This produced a roar of laughter from the men, a brittle smile from Lila Mae.

  Charlie Moon sliced the cake, passed ample portions around.

  Daisy dug right in.

  Lila Mae barely touched the rich dessert.

  Sensitive about the tightness developing lately under his belt, Scott Parris left half of his helping behind, but pecked wistfully at the remains with his fork.

  Moon, slim as a whip snake, completed his wedged section and helped himself to a second serving of the sugary confection.

  The second hand on the wall clock went clickety-click.

  Old times were recalled, mostly true stories were told.

  During a momentary lull, the waiter brought a silver decanter of steaming coffee. The caffeine-rich beverage triggered further remembrances, even more audacious anecdotes.

  In an attempt to break through Daisy’s defenses, Lila Mae offered up an account of her sixth birthday party and a tiny white kitten with a “little pink bow” around its neck. Her father, she recalled, had presented the gift in a root-beer mug. Birthdays were a special time. She flashed her sweetest smile at the Ute elder.

  The wicked old woman yawned in her face.

  Even Charlie Moon noticed this. He shot his aunt a warning look.

  This mild rebuke merely annoyed the birthday girl. Why did Charlie have to invite that pushy woman anyway? I wish he’d brought along one of my friends instead—like Father Raes Delfino. Why didn’t he do something nice like that? These thoughts produced a deeply satisfying pang of self-righteous pity.

  As if he had heard her secret wish, Charlie Moon passed his aunt a small package. “I almost forgot. Father Raes asked me to give you this.”

  Daisy turned the gift over in her hands. The parcel was wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with a stout length of twine. “Why didn’t he bring it himself?”

  “He left the Columbine a couple of days ago,” Moon said. “He’s going to spend a month in Italy.”

  Daisy sniffed. “I didn’t know there was any shortage of priests over there.” She borrowed Moon’s steak knife to cut the string, unpeeled the wrapping. “It’s a little book,” she said. And indeed it was. The gold-leaf title on the scuffed leather cover was The Little Flowers of St. Francis—Illustrated. The pages were worn from many turnings. She squinted at the yellowed flyleaf where someone had written in blue ink, now faded: “To our Dear Son Raes Delfino on the occasion of his sixteenth birthday.”

  This must have been very, very precious to him. Tears filled the Ute woman’s dark eyes. She thumbed through the book, stopped at a woodcut print—St. Francis Praying on Mount Alverna. Daisy was drawn in by the simple sketch. I wonder if that’s what the man who talked to birds really looked like. As the shaman blinked in disbelief, the black-and-white drawing seemed to take on extra dimensions. Branches on bluish black spruce trees shivered in a chill breeze, a puff of cloud drifted across a sapphire sky, the grass under the saint’s knees was green and wet with pearly dew. The man from Assisi turned his head toward the woman who held the book in her hands.

  Daisy’s mouth gaped. What on earth…? In the blink of an eye, the saint’s countenance had changed. This face was someone she knew. “Father Raes,” she muttered, and heard Moon’s voice come from somewhere far away.

  “He said to tell you he’d be here in spirit.”

  The tiny version of the Catholic priest gave the old backslider a heart-piercing look.

  Panicked, Daisy tried to shut the book. The covers were like welded sheets of iron; they would not move. Her hands trembled; she whispered: “What do you want?”

  The others at the table were staring at the peculiar old woman. The general consensus was that she must be reading an interesting passage.

  She watched the elfin apparition shake his head, heard his voice say: “Daisy, Daisy. Every morning, every night, I pray to God for your soul. The angels in heaven weep for you.” With this pronouncement, the phantom priest collapsed into nothingness, the scene on the yellowed page reverted to the simple woodcut of the kneeling saint.

  The small volume slipped from her hands.

  Daisy understood that God expected her to do something. She knew exactly what it was. The penitent sinner resisted for a painful moment before she looked across the table at the FBI lady. “Uh—I guess I forgot to thank you for the scarf.” She strained hard to get the words past her lips. “It’s very nice.” There—that should make God happy.

  It made Lila Mae McTeague happy. She beamed at the unpredictable Ute woman. “I’m so glad you like it.”

  “I sure do.” Daisy pulled the exquisite covering over her head. “I’ll wear it to the next funeral I go to.” She breathed a melancholy sigh. “And that probably won’t be too far off. Most of my friends are almost as old as me and they’re dropping dead like flies at the first hard frost.” Another possibility suggested itself to her. Or maybe some of them will be coming to say good-bye to me.

  Barely three miles away, at another expensive eatery, two other diners were working out their entwined destinies.

  The Stockholm Room at Phillipe’s Streamside Restaurant was filled with soft amber light, joyful strains of Brahms’ Academic Festival Overture—and a congregation of happy patrons.

  Just beyond the green-tinted windowpanes, a small patch of night was gaily illuminated by a string of Chinese lanterns. Because the evening was chilly, the man and the woman had the Streamside Patio to themselves. A combination of effects conspired to make this a uniquely romantic spot—the lusty roar of Granite Creek’s rolling waters, a low mumbling of thunder over the cloud-shrouded mountains, the hooked horns of a crescent moon, the winking flicker of a sugar-sprinkle of stars.

  The lady in a black dress and pearls picked at the roasted remains of a freshly slaughtered chicken, tastefully nestled in a deathbed of wild rice and damson plums.

  The well-dressed man with the forked beard relished his pork roast, caramelized onions, and buttered new potatoes flecked with a pox of chopped chives. It is true that Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe gave the lady an occasional appraising glance; equally true that Amanda Anderson seemed barely aware of his presence.

  Their tables were separated by a dozen paces.

  It was just as well.

  Manfred had a very attractive young wife at home and serious business on his mind.

  The lady diner was down on men in general, having just left one behind.

  Somewhere on the far side of the stream, a tawny wood rat scuttled among the dry leaves.

  On a craggy cottonwood branch, a saw-whet owl spread her white-spotted wings, launched herself aloft. This Aegolius acadicus had her yellow ey
e set on the sliver of silver moon, harbored in her breast the happy ambition of landing there.

  Like the robin-size owl, the woman was entertaining optimistic thoughts. For example, that she had reached the pinnacle of a successful career, had more than sufficient funds in the bank to purchase a spacious condo in Aspen, a fine house in Santa Fe. Better than that, she finally had more than sufficient evidence to divorce her lying, lecherous leech of a husband. To top it all off, she was still a fine-looking woman, well on the sweet side of fifty, and in perfect health. As she raised a long-stemmed wineglass to toast her excellent prospects, Amanda had enormous confidence in the future.

  There was something else she had.

  Seven seconds to live.

  The short-timer felt the man’s gaze tingle on the side of her face, turned to return the brazen stare. If she had not moved, the soft-nosed bullet would have struck her in the left temple, barely two centimeters above the ear. As it was, the crimson entry wound appeared on her forehead, just under the line of her hair—as if a magnanimous genie had placed a precious ruby there.

  There was no pain.

  There was…nothing.

  Scott Parris was halfway home from Daisy Perika’s birthday party when a sudden shower rattled on the windshield. There was a blurred flash of lightning in the east. He counted the seconds until a rumble of thunder tumbled off the mountains. That was about a mile and a half away. He smiled in the darkness. A fine dinner with good friends and now a rainy night—just the thing for a good sleep. This pleasant thought was interrupted by an unpleasant vibration in his shirt pocket. Only a half-dozen souls had his private number. The chief of police pulled over to the curb, frowned at the digits on the display. That’s Doc Simpson’s cell phone. He punched in the number, waited.