Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  Pretty Pansy brushed away a wisp of golden hair. “No, I can do it.” She braced herself. “Go ahead.”

  The medical examiner nodded, opened the insulated door, pulled out a stainless tray that was seven and a half feet long.

  The woman, the lawyer—even the hardened pair of lawmen—caught their breath.

  It was Pansy Blinkoe who spoke. “I don’t understand—where is he? I mean…”

  Dr. Simpson regarded the roll of cotton cloth, turned his gaze on Scott Parris. “Didn’t you tell her?”

  The chief of police reddened. “Uh—no. I guess I forgot. I mean, I thought you had already…” He simply ran out of words.

  The M.E. shook his head, turned to the woman. “Mrs. Blinkoe, I’m terribly sorry about this. What happened was, the person who—uh—discovered this specimen in Moccasin Lake did not recover the entire remains.”

  A look of cold horror was creeping over the woman’s features. Pansy Blinkoe seemed to have aged a decade. “What do you mean?”

  Simpson patted the cloth-wrapped parcel as if it were his favorite puppy. “What we have here is one of the limbs.”

  Her hand found her mouth. “Limbs?”

  The M.E. nodded. “Left arm.”

  She stared at the unruffled pathologist. “But…why…”

  Scott Parris turned his hat in his hands. “Ma’am, we have physical evidence indicating there was a terrific explosion on your husband’s houseboat. Enough to do considerable damage to the—ah—remains.”

  “Oh, God.” Her shoulders began to shake. She leaned heavily on Charlie Moon.

  The Ute had felt her pain surging through him.

  Trottman glared at Moon, patted the woman on the arm. “Mrs. Blinkoe—are you all right?”

  Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Let me see the…the…” She simply could not say it.

  Simpson unwrapped the thing.

  She stared at the torn shoulder muscles, the blackened biceps, the forearm, the upturned hand. “It doesn’t look…real.”

  The M.E. nodded at what he considered a lovely specimen. “That’s a normal reaction, Mrs. Blinkoe. A limb apart from a body strikes us as rather an odd thing to see. But it’s real enough. What we need to determine is whether this belonged to someone you know.” He turned his grandfatherly gaze on the young woman. “Can you identify this left arm?”

  Her pretty head nodded. “That’s his ring.”

  Simpson’s round little baby face turned slightly pink. “For the record, Mrs. Blinkoe—whose ring?”

  Pansy pointed at the horrid assembly of flesh and bone and skin. “Manny’s—my husband’s.”

  Trottman stared at the gruesome exhibit. “Yes. Manfred always wore his ruby ring.”

  The now-official widow closed her eyes, took a very deep breath. Exhaled. “Manny bought it years before we met. Inside the rim, he had the jeweler put all three of his initials. M.W.B.” She added needlessly: “That was in case if he ever lost it, he could prove it was his.”

  “That’s all we need to hear.” Like a jolly butcher wrapping up a plump pork roast, the medical examiner rolled up the severed arm in the cotton cloth. “You fellows take the lady back upstairs. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.” As a thoughtless afterthought, the lonely old man added: “And there’s a big Virginia ham in the fridge. Honey-cured. If you want to hang around for a while, we can make some sandwiches.” It did not occur to the pathologist that his guests might not have an appetite.

  17

  The Night Visitor

  Feeling squeaky clean and considerably refreshed, Pansy Blinkoe reached for the gold-plated shower valve, turned off the skin-tingling spray of hot water. She stood very still, eyes closed, drip-dripping…whispering the words of a brand-new mantra.

  Manny’s gone.

  Manny’s not coming back.

  Manny’s dead!

  Sucking in a gulp of the humid atmosphere, she continued.

  I’m here.

  I’m going places.

  I’m alive!

  She opened her eyes, focused on the shower wall, watched a plump bead of water slip down the surface of a cobalt-blue Mexican tile.

  Outside the Blinkoe home, there was a presence in the darkness. It moved about the grounds with the easy familiarity of one who belonged.

  Pansy Blinkoe stepped out of the shower, toweled herself almost-dry, slipped into a black Japanese silk bathrobe that was ornamented with impossibly crimson lotus blossoms, padded down the carpeted hallway, opened the door to her elegant bedroom, flicked on the overhead light. She seated herself at a pink marble vanity, began to brush lovely tresses that tumbled over her shoulders in a molten, golden waterfall. She gazed at the reflected woman, considered her options. I’m still young. I could sell this big house, move to L.A. or Miami. Buy a smaller place, maybe on the beach. I could make some new friends. Men friends. She smiled at the pretty face in the looking glass. It smiled back with the brilliantly white dentures Manfred had provided. At least he did that for me. She was about to give the hair another vigorous brush when her body went cold enough to freeze and shatter. Here is what was the matter:

  In the mirror, just over her shoulder, she could see her bedroom window. A shadowy figure had materialized there. The familiar face was not smiling.

  A minor irritation

  Tucked snugly into his bed, Spencer Trottman was immersed in the deepest of sleeps, enjoying the most pleasant of dreams. He walked along a grassy path, beside a crystalline stream. The bank was carpeted with iridescent green moss and tiny blue flowers. He was suddenly confronted by a small, freckle-faced boy. The child removed a toy telephone from his pocket. It rang once. Twice. The youngster stuck the thing to his ear, nodded, offered the instrument to the dreamer. “Here, mister—it’s for you.”

  For the third time, the telephone on the bedside table rang. Almost awake now, Trottman rolled over, grabbed the instrument, almost dropped it, made an admirable recovery, put it on the pillow beside his head. “Wha—what?”

  A woman’s voice screeched in his ear. “Spencer—is that you?”

  It’s Pansy. He squinted at the alarm clock dial. Ten minutes past one. “What is it?”

  Another shriek in his ear. “He’s here!”

  “Who’s here—what are you talking about?”

  Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. “Manny’s here—I saw him.”

  The attorney pushed himself up on an elbow. “That’s not possible.”

  “I don’t care whether it’s possible or not,” she said through clenched teeth. “I saw his face. Plain as day.”

  Trottman stared at the black window. “When did you see him?”

  “Just a minute or so ago.”

  The man who had been so rudely awakened put his bare feet on the cold oak floor, felt a shudder in his legs. “You had a bad dream, that’s all. After what you’ve been through lately, it’s hardly surprising that—”

  “It wasn’t no dream—I’d just got out of the shower. I saw Manny while I was wide awake and brushing my hair.”

  She’s either drunk or hallucinating. Or both. “Pansy, I have to ask you this. Have you been drinking?”

  “No, you silly bastard—I have not been drinking.” A pause. “Well, I did have a little glass of wine at dinner.” Maybe two. Or three.

  A glass of wine probably was your dinner. He swallowed a yawn. “You’ve had a rough day, identifying Manfred’s remains and all. Hey, that was enough to give me the shivers.”

  “Look, I am telling you I saw him.”

  There is no point in arguing with her. “You might’ve seen Manfred’s ghost. From what I’ve heard, people who’ve lost a loved one occasionally have experiences like that.”

  “He was not a ‘loved one’ and you know it.”

  He blinked in the darkness. “What do you want from me?”

  She made a half-sob. “Well, for starters you could show a little sympathy.”

  The attorney smiled. “I’m sorry, Pans
y. I’m actually very fond of you.” More than you’ll ever know. “It’s just that your call woke me up and I’m still sort of groggy—”

  “Manny’s come back to torment me.”

  He rubbed at his eyes. “Maybe you should take a sleeping pill.”

  “No, no, no!” Her transmitted voice rose and fell as she shook her head past the telephone. “I’m afraid—I need to talk to somebody about this.”

  “Why don’t you talk to your brother?” Clayton Crowe lived over the Blinkoe garage. Surely he wouldn’t mind holding his little sister’s hand till she calmed down.

  “I haven’t seen Clayton for days—he’s off on one of his trips, probably whoring around in Denver.” She shouted in his ear: “Spencer, I will not sleep in this house tonight.” Maybe not ever again.

  Trottman got to his feet. “Then where will you sleep?”

  There was a hesitation. “I thought you might have some idea.”

  Does that mean what it sounds like? Probably not. “Tell you what, Pansy—I’ll get you a nice room over at the Stockman’s Hotel.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m coming to your place. Right now.”

  Why not? “Okay. Come on over. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

  “Fine. We can sit up all night and talk.” She took a deep breath. “Seeing Manny’s face has really put the scare in me. There’s some stuff we need to go over.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “I’m thinking of moving away. To California. Or Florida.” Now it was a little-girl’s voice. “And there’s something else I need to tell you. It’s about Clayton.”

  Spencer Trottman heard a metallic click, stared at the mute telephone. He sat down on the bed. Under the best of circumstances, Pansy was unpredictable. He doubted that she would actually show up. Once she gets in her pickup, she’ll probably just keep on driving. He wondered whether he would ever see the pretty young woman again.

  18

  Missing Person

  Charlie Moon pulled the Columbine Expedition over to the curb, nudged it up behind a new Chevrolet squad car that was assigned to Granite Creek’s chief of police.

  Scott Parris had the engine running. He waved, making an impatient gesture for his buddy to get in.

  The tribal investigator slid in beside his best friend, slammed the door.

  The town cop jerked a thumb at the passenger-side shoulder belt. “Buckle up, cowboy—we are going to ride.”

  Moon fastened the restraint. “Good morning to you, too.”

  “What’s the matter, Slim—haven’t had your usual twenty-thousand-calorie breakfast?”

  “Haven’t even had a smell of coffee.” Moon looked pained. “I left the minute I got the call from your graveyard-shift dispatcher.” He glanced at the wily white man. “So what’s this all about?”

  Parris was already barreling down Copper Street. “Don’t know for sure. We’ll find out when we see the citizen who called the station at five A.M. He asked for me by name.” He shot his friend a merry look. “He also asked for you.”

  “Who asked for me?”

  Relishing his role in perpetuating the small mystery, Scott Parris spooned the information out in small bites. “Prominent local attorney.” He toggled the siren switch to produce a single wail.

  As they barreled through a red light, Moon braced himself. “Mr. Trottman?”

  His foot heavy on the accelerator, GCPD’s top cop hit the northern edge of town at seventy-six miles an hour. “That’s the guy.”

  “Where are we headed?”

  “To meet with said attorney.”

  Moon knew that Trottman’s office and home were in Granite Creek. On the south side of town. He pointed this out.

  “He’s waiting for us at Moccasin Lake Estates.” Parris looked toward an uncertain future. “More particularly, at the home of the late Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe.”

  The first time Charlie Moon had met Manfred Blinkoe’s attorney, the man had been immaculately clean, well groomed, outfitted in an expensive suit and spit-shined black oxfords. On this gray morning, the troubled man resembled an out-of-work pool shark with a hangover. The lawyer had bloodshot eyes, mussed hair, an insomniac’s glassy stare. The effect was enhanced by his wrinkled slacks, dusty Roper boots, and loose-fitting windbreaker over a Broncos T-shirt.

  After the chief of police and his passenger had extracted themselves from the confinement of the low-slung Chevrolet sedan, Trottman shook hands with each of the lawmen. “Thanks for coming.” He gave the Ute an apologetic look. “Both of you.” He turned to frown at the Blinkoe residence. “I’ve been here since before daylight. Something’s not right.”

  Parris followed the man’s gaze. “What’s the bottom line?”

  “Mrs. Blinkoe isn’t here.”

  “So she’s not at home.” The chief of police raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason why I should be concerned about that?”

  “Perhaps.” Trottman shrugged. “Perhaps not.”

  Parris struggled to keep the hammer from falling on his hair-trigger temper. “Would you care to clarify that?”

  Trottman smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Guess I’m not making much sense. I’ve been up most of the night.”

  “Okay. Start at the beginning.”

  Assaulted with a sudden fit of shivers, the attorney zipped the jacket to his chin. “Mrs. Blinkoe called me last night.” He glanced at the rising sun. “Well, to be precise, she called me quite early this morning. About one A.M.”

  “Okay.” Parris watched the man’s face. “I may want a detailed statement later, but right now give me the two-bit version. What’d she call you about?”

  Trottman looked at the damp grass. “Uh—she said she was scared.”

  The police chief’s antenna went up. “Scared of what?”

  “When she was in her bedroom, she saw somebody. In the mirror.”

  At the mention of a mirror, Charlie Moon felt an odd chill.

  Parris pressed on. “Who’d she see?”

  “She thought she saw…her husband.”

  Parris cocked his head. “Let me make sure I get this straight—Mrs. Blinkoe claimed she saw her dead husband in her bedroom mirror?”

  Another nod from the Blinkoe family attorney. “I told her it was due to all the stress, that she should try to get some sleep. But Mrs. Blinkoe was really upset. Her brother wasn’t at home and she insisted that she wouldn’t sleep there, not last night anyway. I offered to call the Stockman’s Hotel, get her a room. But I don’t think the poor woman was ready to sleep anywhere. She said she was coming into town—to my place.” He hesitated. “To talk.” He tried to smile. “You know how women are. Something upsets them, they have to talk about it.”

  Parris frowned at the lawyer. “I gather she didn’t show.”

  “No.” Trottman rubbed his tired eyes. “As you know, the drive takes barely thirty minutes. After almost an hour had passed, I thought maybe she’d changed her mind, taken a sleeping pill and gone to bed. But just to be on the safe side, I called her. Mrs. Blinkoe didn’t answer the land line, so I tried her cell phone. Still no answer. I thought she’d probably just switched off the phones, so I went back to bed. But hard as I tried, I couldn’t get a wink of sleep. So after lying there staring at the ceiling for hours, I drove up here.” He pointed at an empty space beside Manfred Blinkoe’s Mercedes sedan—a few spots of oil blemished the asphalt drive. “Her pickup was gone and there weren’t any lights on in the house, but I banged on the front door. I wasn’t surprised when there was no answer. So I came around the back of the house, to the garage, to see if I could raise her brother.” He glanced up at the loft apartment. “You can see that his old GMC pickup is here, but his motorcycle is gone, so I guess he still hadn’t returned from wherever he was. Mrs. Blinkoe told me he’d been gone for days. I said, ‘To hell with all this foolishness, I’m going home. And I’m going to charge the Blinkoe Estate full rate for the hours I’ve spent out of my bed tonight.’”

  Parris and M
oon exchanged grins.

  Trottman did not share their good humor. “But come have a look at this.”

  They followed the attorney past a bushy willow to the rear entrance.

  He pointed. “Just as I was about to leave, I noticed that.”

  The lawmen stared. The glass in the rear door was broken. As if someone had rammed a good-size rock through it. Or maybe his fist.

  Parris approached with due care of what might turn out to be evidence. There were only two dime-size fragments of glass on the back step. He looked through the shattered pane. The rest of the glass—about a dozen large shards—was inside, scattered across the kitchen floor. One chair was flat on its back. Parris turned to eye the attorney. “You been in the house?”

  “Well, yes. I thought it advisable to determine whether anyone was inside—perhaps in need of my assistance.” Trottman was blushing. “I don’t have a key, of course—but the door was not locked.”

  That made sense. The same guy who broke the glass would have reached inside and thrown the bolt.

  The lawyer rubbed a palm across his uncombed hair. “I had a look around. There was a chair knocked over in the kitchen, but no other—uh—signs of a struggle. I checked out the whole house. There was no one at home. All the same, I thought I should summon the police.” He glanced at the tribal investigator. “And, because he had been working for Manfred, I thought Mr. Moon should be notified.”

  Parris offered Trottman an amiable smile. “You wait out here.” Following standard operating procedure, Parris first called out, inquiring whether anyone was at home. As expected, there was no response. He gave Charlie Moon the let’s-go look, used a handkerchief to turn the knob. The lawmen entered the Blinkoe residence. Aside from the hardwood floor squeaking under their boots, there was no sound.

  It took only a few minutes to verify the accuracy of Spencer Trottman’s report that no one was inside. And basement to attic, aside from the upended kitchen chair and broken glass, there appeared to be nothing amiss in the three-story home. The lawmen made a second visit to the lady’s bedroom. They stared at the only mirror in Pansy Blinkoe’s pink-on-pink boudoir. “If she was sitting there,” Parris pointed at the vanity, “she would have had her back directly to the corner window. So if she saw somebody in the mirror, it was probably some Peeping Tom waiting for the lady to undress.”