They approached a narrow ribbon of a stream that trickled out of the mouth of Spirit Canyon.
The hunter’s Savage 110FP Tactical Rifle was chambered for .300 Winchester Magnum—one of the best long-range cartridges available. He found a suitable spot behind a juniper, seated himself cross-legged, rested the rifle barrel in a notch between the trunk and a limb. Like all effective plans, this one was simple. Put a round through the primary target, then drop the Indian cop. A homemade silencer was screwed onto the end of the barrel, so the shot wouldn’t be heard by the old woman in the trailer or the lawyer who was her guest. He had no interest in these bystanders. Blinkoe was who he’d come to kill. Once he had gotten the job done, he would walk back to the truck, hide the rifle in the concealed compartment welded under the pickup bed, drive away like an innocent tourist. It would probably be at least an hour before the survivors began to wonder why Blinkoe and the Indian hadn’t returned, another thirty minutes before they went looking for them. And by the time they find the bodies and put a call in to the police, I’ll be miles and miles away.
He closed his left eye, squinted his right at the high-tech, antishake 9X telescope. Okay…there they are. But a little fuzzy. He thumbed the focus knob, noted the distance on the in-scope range finder digital readout. A hundred and thirty-two yards. Not exactly a slam-dunk, but I can do it. The marksman placed the crosshairs on Manfred Blinkoe’s spine, snugged his finger up to the trigger. And had an unsettling thought. If I take Blinkoe out first, the skinny Indian might take a dive into the bushes and slip away. I have to kill them both. It’d make more sense to drop the athletic-looking spear chucker with the first shot, then pop Blinkoe. With an almost imperceptible movement of the heavy rifle, he laid the crosshairs on the Indian’s chest. The Ute was nodding, evidently responding to something Blinkoe was saying. Okay, Tonto. You’ve got about three seconds left to live. His finger began to tighten on the trigger. Nobody on earth or in heaven can save you now….
A sudden gust rattled the juniper branches.
“Damn—damn!” he muttered. Even a mild breeze would make this a marginal shot, and now the wind was tossing dust in his face. He thought it over. I can’t afford to miss. There’s only one way out of this place, and it’s a long drive back to the paved highway. If the survivor dials 911 and reports a sniper, the local cops could throw up a roadblock before I could get back to the pavement.
He waited for the annoying wind to subside.
It did not.
It seemed to have come to stay.
It was time to call it a day. This descendant of Cain was not overly troubled. There would be another time. Another opportunity. The essential thing was to stay in the game. He slung the nylon rifle strap over his shoulder, departed as silently as he had come.
Blinkoe picked up a small stick, pitched it into the crystalline water. He took a childlike pleasure in the small splash his minuscule missile made. The orthodontist blinked at the stream, watched the twig float away, vanish under an overhang of willow branches. He wished all his troubles would slip away with it. “That evening at Phillipe’s, the person who fired the shot—missed.”
The tribal investigator thought about this. “Unless I completely misunderstood what I read in the newspaper, the bullet hit the woman in the head. She dropped dead on the spot.”
“Allow me to clarify. The assassin missed his intended target.”
Moon thought he knew, but felt compelled to ask. “Which was?”
“Myself, of course.”
The Ute watched a bald eagle circle above the canyon. Why don’t I ever get one of those slinky, good-looking lady clients like those hard-drinking detectives in pulp fiction. The rich blonde that wants you to find her missing sister who ran off to Hollywood with a trombone player. All I ever get is a thankless assignment from the tribal chairman or some botheration from one of these peculiar persons that—
Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe wrung his hands in exasperation. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I know this?”
If it’ll make you feel better. “How do you know you were the shooter’s target?”
“I sense you are humoring me.” A pout pursed his lips. “I don’t believe that I shall tell you.”
“Okay.”
Blinkoe stamped his foot. “You are a most exasperating man!”
“I didn’t mean to rile you.” The Ute patted Blinkoe’s rounded shoulder. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
The orthodontist seated himself on a rotten cottonwood log. “You must promise not to laugh.”
“I’ll do my level best.”
It was some time before the man spoke, but when he did it was with an intensity that surpassed his previous tantrum. “Moments before the shooting occurred, I felt a strange, tingling sensation. I looked up, toward the table where the woman was seated. There, very near her, was…” He put his face in his hands. “Oh—I don’t know if I can make myself tell you.”
Moon sat down beside him. “If it’d help, I could tie you to an anthill. Drive red-hot splinters under your toenails.”
The matukach glared at the merry Ute. “Mr. Moon, I am not devoid of a sense of humor. I laugh at the Sunday comics, particularly FoxTrot and Agnes. And if I happen to see an elderly lady trip over her cane and tumble down the porch steps, I positively go into hysterics. But this is a very serious matter.”
“You’re right.”
Blinkoe’s expression was doubtful. “You promise not to make sport of me?”
“Sure. Now tell me who you saw near the woman who got shot.”
“For the sake of conversation, we may refer to what I saw as…” He gulped. “As It.”
Moon arched a dark eyebrow. “It?”
Blinkoe avoided the Ute’s gaze. “That’s what I said.”
“Uh, I don’t know just how to say this—but what exactly is It?” Moon had no trouble looking puzzled. “Are we talking animal, mineral, or vegetable?”
The white man’s face blushed pink. “Neither.”
“I’m not sure I really want to know—but what does that leave?”
“It is nonmaterial.”
Aha. “You mean like a ghost?”
“More like…a presence.”
The tribal investigator stared at his potential client. Or maybe a hallucination.
Blinkoe waited for a response. “Well?”
“Hmmm,” the Ute said.
“What does that mean?”
“Means I’m thinking.”
“Thinking what?”
You don’t want to know. “You ever seen this ‘It’ before?”
“Oh, certainly—during the course of my highly eventful life, whenever I have been in mortal danger I have often become aware of my…uh…companion. This has occurred seven times during the past ten years, five of which preceded the violent incident at Phillipe’s.”
Moon did some elementary arithmetic. “Five plus one equals six.” He said this with considerable assurance that he would not be contradicted.
Blinkoe cleared his throat. “The seventh sighting was after the shooting.”
The tribal investigator looked over the canyon. The white-headed eagle was no longer there. “When and where?”
“Yesterday, in Granite Creek. More precisely, at noon—at Harriet’s Rare Books.”
“Anybody try to do you in?”
Blinkoe shook his head. “But I am certain that it was a warning. Whoever intended to murder me at the restaurant may have been lurking nearby, waiting for a second opportunity. I have no doubt the scoundrel will make another attempt.”
“You tell Scott Parris about this…uh…this It business?”
“I did not.” Blinkoe hesitated. “Forgive me for saying this about your colleague, but he is a bone-headed bumpkin.”
Moon tried to look at least mildly offended, but could not pull it off.
“Which is to say—he is not the sort of person who would listen to any story that was more unusual than Jack and Jill Went up the Hill to Fetc
h a Pail of Liquid Refreshment. But I did inform him that I was the assassin’s intended victim.”
“And he didn’t buy that?”
“No. In fact, he came very near guffawing in my face.”
“But Scott sent you to see me.” Thanks a lot, pal.
“He did.” The peculiar man scowled. “I’m sure he merely wanted to be rid of me.”
“Look,” the Ute said gently, “I don’t think I can help you. Nonmaterial stuff—that’s not quite in my line of expertise.” Maybe he should talk to Aunt Daisy.
“I am not an utter fool,” Blinkoe snapped. “I do not expect you to go looking for…for my nonmaterial companion. What I want you to do is find out who’s trying to murder me. And put a stop to it.”
“Well, it does sound interesting.” Moon flipped a pebble into the stream. “Problem is, I’ve got a big ranch to look after. And what little time I have left over, the tribal chairman keeps me busy with this and that.”
“Then you’re saying you won’t help me?”
“Sure wish I could, but—”
“I cannot accept that answer.” Blinkoe jutted his chin in the manner of one who has been driven to a difficult decision. “I’m sorry. But you leave me no choice in the matter.”
Intrigued to find out what the man had in mind, Moon waited. He did not have to wait long.
Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe put a hand inside his jacket.
Having met more than his fair share of crazies, the tribal investigator tensed. If he pulls a gun—
Blinkoe produced a pack of Bicycle Playing Cards, which he offered to the Ute. “I understand that you are a gambling man.”
Moon inspected the box. The cellophane seal was unbroken. “Where’d you hear that?”
The white man allowed himself a small smirk. “I have my ways of finding out things.”
“What’ve you got in mind?”
Blinkoe rubbed his palms together. “Name your poison.”
“Straight poker will be the death of me.”
“Done.”
“What’re the stakes?”
“My hard cash against your hard work.”
“You’ll have to be a bit more quantitative.” Moon watched the orthodontist extract a wallet from his hip pocket. A fat wallet.
Blinkoe removed a thick sheaf of hundred-dollar bills, began to peel them off one by one. He offered the stack for the Ute’s inspection.
Moon counted the crisp new hundreds. “There’s a thousand bucks here.”
“We’ll play one hand. You win, you take the greenbacks. I win, you provide me with three days of your investigative services at no cost.”
This sounded too easy. The Ute gave him a narrow-eyed look. “I shuffle, you cut, I deal.”
“That will be quite satisfactory.”
Moon ripped off the cellophane, opened the small carton. He checked the deck, offered it for Blinkoe’s inspection.
The orthodontist expertly spread the cards into a fan, passed them back to the Ute.
Moon shuffled.
Blinkoe cut the deck.
Using the sandy earth for a table, Moon dealt five cards each. He watched the odd man check his hand. “How many do you want?”
“Oh,” Blinkoe said with a shrug, “I suppose I’ll stick with what I’ve got.”
Moon knew a bluff when he saw one. He looked at a pair of fives. “Dealer takes three.” He dealt himself a deuce, a nine of spades—another five! “I’ll raise you three more days of services.”
“I’ll see that with another thousand dollars.”
Moon laid his hand down. “Three of a kind.”
“Well,” Blinkoe said, “that is pretty good.” He smirked. “But not good enough.” He showed the Ute his hand. All hearts. Ten. Jack. Queen. King. Ace.
Moon stared like a man who has stumbled over a tombstone and found his name engraved on it. And today’s date.
Blinkoe beamed at the Indian. “Well, well—looks like this is my lucky day.”
The Ute spoke slowly, his words cutting like an ax. “Dr. Blinkoe—the odds against being dealt a royal flush are not even one in half a million.”
“Is that a fact?”
“To be exact, it’s one in six hundred and forty-nine thousand, seven hundred and forty.”
“Then I am extraordinarily lucky.”
“You’re extraordinarily reckless. You should’ve gone for something barely believable—like a straight.”
Blinkoe’s voice went thin. “What, exactly, are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’re an outright, bald-faced cheat.”
“Sir, that is highly offensive.” The player made a valiant attempt to appear outraged. “After all, you dealt the cards. How could I have possibly—”
“The old-fashioned way. You marked the deck, put it back in the box, used a heated butter knife to reseal the cellophane.”
“Really, now—”
“And you had that flush stuffed up your sleeve along with all the other aces and faces you might’ve needed—depending on what I was holding.”
“That is absolutely absurd.”
“Then prove me wrong—take off your jacket, roll up your shirtsleeves.”
“And if I refuse?”
The hostile Indian picked up the deck. “I’ll check to see if the ace of hearts is still in this deck. Along with the rest of your flush.”
The card cheat blanched. “Mr. Moon, I am compelled to make a critical statement—you are taking a friendly little card game far too seriously.”
“Dr. Blinkoe, there is nothing more serious than poker.”
“Oh, all right.” He threw his hands up with an air of exasperation. “I admit it—I did play a bit of a prank on you. But it was all in good fun.”
The Ute continued to stare holes in him.
“I have confessed—what else do you want?”
Charlie Moon told him what he wanted.
Blinkoe said a painful farewell to twenty hundred-dollar bills.
Moon counted the money twice. “If any of this turns out to be counterfeit—”
“Oh, posh. I would never consider such a monstrous deceit.”
The Ute held a bill up to the sunlight. “Looks like the genuine article.”
“Well of course it’s genuine.” He is really a very picky fellow. “I hope you will be willing to forgive and forget—”
He glared at the white man. “I can’t think of anything makes me madder than a card cheat. Compared to you, a horse thief could teach Sunday school.”
Blinkoe blinked. “You are really angry with me?”
“If you was on fire, I wouldn’t spit on you.”
“You should not be so judgmental.” The shameless man looked away. “It is not my fault that I had cards in my sleeve.”
This was more fun than he’d had in weeks. “How do you figure that?”
“I suffer from a serious medical condition.” There was a well-executed hesitation. “If I reveal my humiliating secret, will you promise to keep it to yourself?”
“Sure.” This should be good. “Cross my fingers.”
The habitual liar took a deep breath, exhaled the contrived confession. “I cannot control myself. It is true that I am a compulsive cheater—but this fault is entirely due to a defective gene.”
“Well, that throws a whole new light on things.” Moon choked back a grin. “Is there any treatment?”
“Psychiatric counseling has been of no use at all.” Blinkoe exhaled a martyr’s sigh. “But last month, I met with a group of biomedical scientists in Palo Alto who are hopeful that advances in stem cell research will eventually provide a cure.”
“You mean like implanting cells from an honest person into you?”
“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but you are more or less on the right track. Needless to say, I have invested heavily in their research.”
Moon was absolutely in awe of the man. “I guess I was a little hard on you.”
“Does that mean you wi
ll agree to help me?”
“Haven’t made up my mind yet. But if I do, it’ll be for five hundred bucks a day. First ten days in advance.”
“Ouch! That is rather steep.”
“If you’d like to bargain, we could discuss paid holidays. A medical-dental plan. And a bonus if I have to work on Chief Ouray’s birthday.”
“Oh, very well. I accept your terms.” Blinkoe glanced toward the trailer, where his impatient lawyer was waiting with the old Indian woman. “I suppose you’ll want all sorts of personal information.”
“If I decide to do some work for you, I would need to know something about your business activities.”
“Other than a few investments, I am retired from the world of business.”
“That must give you plenty of time to spend with your family.”
“I am, sadly—an orphan. But I do have a devoted wife.” Blinkoe rubbed a gold band on his finger. It was set with a heart-shaped stone. “This six-carat ruby was a gift from my loving spouse on our first wedding anniversary.” He blinked moist eyes. “Pansy saved up every penny from her allowance.” For a moment, he was so moved by this magnificent lie that he could not speak. He cleared his throat, glanced at the Swiss-made timepiece strapped to his wrist. “I suppose we should return to your aunt’s quaint domicile. Spencer is a very impatient fellow; he’s probably in a tiff by now.”
“Whether or not I decide to take you on as a client, there’s one thing I’m bound to do for you.” The tribal investigator stared hard at the fascinating man. “I’m going to give you some advice.”
M. W. Blinkoe looked mildly alarmed at the prospect. “What sort of advice?”
“The sort that might save your life. Here it is: Don’t ever, ever cheat at cards again.”
The response was immediate and scented with insincerity. “Oh, very well.”
“You promise?”
“I give you my solemn word.”
Moon grinned.
Blinkoe looked to be deeply hurt. “I don’t like that look in your eye—do you think I would lie to you?”
“Well, you had your mouth open—and I could hear words coming out.”
“I have informed you about my medical condition, Mr. Moon. You should make an attempt to be more tolerant. And understanding.”
Shadow Man Page 5
