Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  “This prosperous old guy have a set of wheels?”

  “I do not know. Employees are encouraged to park their vehicles across the highway, in the mall lot.”

  Parris looked out the window. “Let’s go have a look at Willie’s assigned lodgings.”

  The shed was crammed almost to overflowing with fifty-pound bags of fertilizer, gallon jugs of weed killer, an assortment of paint cans and brushes, and virtually every hand tool known to man. Plus a rusty gasoline-powered lawn mower, a garden tractor that looked almost new, a dirt-encrusted wheelbarrow, about a ton of fresh sod.

  In a dark corner, the groundskeeper had cleared out a space for himself. There was a folding card table that—judging from the single plate, knife, and fork, and the stack of paperback books—evidently did double duty for Old Willie’s dining and reading needs. On the wall above a makeshift cot topped with a plastic-covered mattress, there was a rough pine shelf that supported a cheap-looking radio and a Kerr jar with a green toothbrush and tube of toothpaste stuffed inside. A Cattleman’s Bank calendar was suspended from a nail. Parris turned backward through the pages. The aged man, who’d had so few days left, had been marking them off one by one. The marks stopped at the day before yesterday.

  “You see,” Phillipe said with an expansive gesture, “all of his meager belongings are still here. Why would he just walk away?”

  Parris felt a sour coldness settling into his stomach. He was absolutely certain that the old man had not simply “walked away.” On that night when the woman on the restaurant patio was shot in the head, maybe Old Willie had seen more than he’d admitted to. And even if he hadn’t, maybe the shooter had decided to eliminate a potential witness.

  43

  The Walk-In

  At least three days every week, Special Agent McTeague worked out of her Granite Creek office. The rented space was a small corner room above the Cattleman’s Bank. It had an old-fashioned door with a transom, a ceiling fan that creak-creaked, cracked plaster walls, and a pair of tall windows that looked out over Third and Main. It was late in the afternoon, time to clean off her desk. The FBI employee was spinning the file cabinet’s combination lock when she heard footsteps slowly ascending the uncarpeted stairs. Boots, she decided. Men’s boots. He walked like an old man—a tired old man. The heels clicked slowly down the hallway, stopped outside the door marked PRIVATE.

  Her presence in Granite Creek was supposed to go unnoticed, but word had gotten around and the locals were curious about the Bureau’s new office in town. From time to time, someone stopped by “just to say hello”—obviously hoping to find out why the “G-men” were setting up shop here. Prevailing opinion was that it must have something to do with Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University. Some of those college students were probably involved in a project that had upset the feds, like making a radiation bomb or hacking into an air-force computer—you could never tell what. Crazy kids.

  There was a tentative tapping. McTeague pressed the intercom button. “Who’s there?”

  A muffled voice answered. “You the FBI lady?”

  She smiled at the door. “Who wants to know?”

  “Uh—I’d rather not say.”

  The agent switched on a black-and-white video monitor. It was hard-wired to a miniature TV camera mounted in the hallway, just above her office door. The LCD screen slipped a few frames, then stabilized the image of a man in a raincoat. Two-thirds of his face was concealed under the brim of a tattered cowboy hat. Under the cuffs of the faded jeans were the expected cowboy boots. The federal cop automatically made mental notes. Height was hard to determine with the steep camera angle, but this was a Caucasian, medium build, a few days’ growth of beard. Looks like a derelict. Just yesterday, a wild-eyed Korean who called himself Emperor Chan-Spong of the Thirteenth Planet had arrived to report a landing of space aliens just north of town. This could be one of the emperor’s drinking buddies. Probably wants to confess to kidnapping the Lindbergh baby. “Okay. Give me a moment to open the door.” There was a standard dead bolt, another that was electrically operated from a switch under her desk.

  “No!” The scruffy-looking man took a step backward. “I’m not comin’ in.” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You that new FBI lady that’s come to town, or her secretary?”

  “This is a small office, we don’t have a secretary. I’m Special Agent McTeague.”

  The visitor leaned closer to the door, as if he were trying to see though the thick oak panel.

  “Look up at the camera over the door,” she said. “And show me some ID.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, I can’t do that, miss—because I don’t carry none.”

  She glanced at her wristwatch. “It’s almost quitting time and I’m looking at a long drive home. So either state your business or hit the bricks.”

  “What I have to say won’t take but a minute.” He pushed his hands deep into the raincoat pockets. “I have some information you’ll be interested in.”

  Sure you do. “About what?”

  He squared his shoulders. “I know something about that guy whose boat blew sky-high up yonder on the lake. That Mr. Blinky.”

  “I assume you mean Dr. Blinkoe.”

  He nodded the cowboy hat. “Yeah. That’s the guy.”

  “I suppose you saw the story on the TV news.” He’ll have some half-baked theory about what really happened, expect a ten-thousand-dollar reward.

  “No, I read about what happened in the newspaper. And I’m ninety-nine percent sure I can help you.” A hesitant pause. “But times is tough, so I don’t beat my gums for nothin’.” He pulled his right hand from the coat pocket, rubbed finger and thumb together in the universal gesture. “If you can spare me a buck or two, I’ll give you a little tip.”

  If I give him something, maybe he’ll go away. McTeague reached into her purse, squatted to slip two dollars under the door.

  “Thank you, miss.” He picked up the payment, pocketed it.

  She gave the pitiful figure on the monitor a stiff smile. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you gather your thoughts for a few days, come back next Tuesday at ten A.M. and we’ll talk for a few minutes.”

  “Next Tuesday, I may be dead.”

  Great, a paranoid. “Who would want to kill you?”

  “The bad guy, if he finds out I’m ready to spill my guts to a fed.” He glanced toward the dimly lighted stairwell, as if an assassin might be lurking there.

  She frowned at the image on the monitor. “So who’s this bad guy?”

  The odd person pulled his hat brim down a notch. “I don’t dare say.” He hesitated. “But he’s a sure-enough hardcase, I can tell you that.” He dragged the coat sleeve across his nose. “You know, it’s kinda funny—ever since I was just a pup, I’ve wanted to be an undercover agent for the FBI.” A raspy cough. “I’m ready to go to work startin’ right now—but only if you pay me a reg’lar salary. Let’s say twenty dollars a week. My code name’ll be ‘Scarf.’” He glanced over his shoulder again. “I made it up while I was climbin’ the stairs.”

  She gave his video image a smile, this time the genuine article. “Mr. Scarf, do you have—”

  “Not Mr. Scarf.” His tone suggested a painful exasperation at having to deal with someone who did not understand how these things worked. “Just plain Scarf.”

  “Very well, uh—Scarf. Do you have the telephone number for this office?”

  “Uh, no.” Just Plain Scarf fumbled in the raincoat pockets. “Wait just a minute till I find my pencil.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She slid her card under the door, stood up to watch him snatch it off the floor.

  “Okay, I got it.” He put his hand under the raincoat, slipped the card into a shirt pocket. “I’ll be ringin’ you up soon as I have somethin’ to tell you.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now there’s the matter of money to talk about. Startin’ a week from now, you can leave my twenty bucks under that flower pot in front of the bank downstairs.
The one with them red-and-yella tulips.”

  Special Agent McTeague watched his black-and-white image turn way, heard the boot heels click-click down the hallway. She sighed. With any luck at all, this will be the last I see of this pathetic old geezer.

  44

  The Outlaw Horse

  Even for an energetic young man in his prime, Charlie Moon had entirely too much work to do. Yesterday, he had spent the full day carrying heavy rocks and two-by-eights. Day before that, he’d hauled a truckload of feed and grain from McCabe’s Mercantile, stacked it in the Sour Creek shed. Today, urgent business had brought him to the Big Hat. County Agent Forrest Wakefield was running tests on 120 head of Herefords and Moon was determined to keep a close eye on things. They were working at the north corral, which was attached to a low, long horse barn. Wakefield was supervising one of his summer employees. While a crew of Columbine cowboys worked the beeves through a squeeze chute, the veterinary student was drawing blood samples. The trick was to get the animals clamped in without a mishap. If a steer fell in the chute, getting it back on its feet again was tedious work. When a Mexican cowboy slapped a wild-eyed Hereford on the rump, Moon watched that last animal lope across the corral, through an open gate into a fenced pasture. “Well, that about does it.”

  Wakefield nodded, wiped a shirtsleeve across his forehead. “Yeah. And I’m danged glad to see the last of ’em.” He instructed his assistant to take the blood samples to the truck.

  Moon watched the sturdy young woman carry the stainless steel case away. “When’ll you have the results?”

  “Couple of weeks.” Wakefield eyed the tall Ute. “Guess I’d better hit the road.” He added wistfully: “I imagine you’re about to have some lunch.”

  “Yeah, it’s got to be a habit.” Moon squinted at the midday sun. “We do that every day, along about noon.”

  The hungry man looked toward the ranch house. “That new fella still doing the cooking?”

  Moon nodded. “Cap’s the only hand we got who can boil coffee and burn meat.”

  Concerned that he was not getting through to the Ute, Wakefield dropped a five-pound hint. “I bet he’s fixing up something that’ll stick to a man’s ribs.”

  “Oh, nothing special.” Moon wore an innocent expression. “Today’s menu is fried chicken, smashed potatoes and brown gravy, green peas cooked in butter. Biscuits made from scratch.” He paused to let that sink in, added: “And rhubarb cobbler.”

  The hopeful diner raised his nose to sniff the air. “When I was a little boy, we had fried chicken almost every Sunday.”

  “Well, ol’ Cap makes it just like Momma did.”

  “And rhubarb is my favorite kinda pie.”

  Moon grinned down at the six-footer. “Then you and your assistant better have lunch with us.”

  The county agent felt his stomach growl. “Oh, we wouldn’t want to impose. And I really oughta get on down the road.”

  “Another time, then.”

  “Well, if you twist my arm—”

  Someone cleared his throat.

  Moon turned to see his youthful straw boss. “What is it, Kyd?”

  Jerome Kydmann, aka the Wyoming Kyd, removed his white Stetson in a respectful gesture. “Sir, it’s about that horse.”

  The Ute’s face darkened. “Sweet Alice?”

  “Yes sir.” The boss don’t like to hear this kind of news but it’s my job to tell him. “You remember how last week, she threw Little Joe Piper into the side of the barn, broke his right arm and his collarbone?”

  The rancher nodded.

  “And the week before that, how she pitched Portuguese Tom over the corral fence? And how ever since, his eyes are crossed and he ain’t been able to walk a straight line?”

  Another nod.

  “And how on Independence Day, that ornery horse—”

  “I know Sweet Alice’s history, Kyd. Get to the point.”

  Jerome Kydmann lowered his gaze to his hat, rotated it in his hands. “Well, Pete Bushman, he thinks—”

  “I know what my foreman thinks. Pete told me yesterday we ought to sell Sweet Alice. To one of them packers that grinds horses up for dog food.” The Ute shook his head. “Before I’d do that, I’d shoot her dead.”

  The Wyoming Kyd took a deep breath, shot the boss a man-to-man gaze. “I am speaking for the wrangler and all of the men. The way we see it, all she does is cripple up one good cowboy after another.” He paused. “Sir, there is some horses that can’t be rode, much less gentled for regular work.” He glared at the animal, who was standing in the corral—listening to every word. “And that is sure-enough one of ’em.”

  Moon looked down his nose at the earnest young man. “There is no such thing as a horse that can’t be rode.”

  The Kyd straightened his back to the last notch. “In all due respect, sir—that is a lot of hooey.”

  “Hooey?” Moon swallowed a smile. “That’s pretty strong language.”

  Kydmann stood his ground. “That’s what I said.” He spat at a fence post, said it again. Louder this time. “Hooey!”

  Moon turned to the county agent. “Forrest, you’re a recognized expert on beeves and horses and other hoofed animals. What do you think?”

  Wakefield gave the horse a thoughtful look.

  Sweet Alice eyed him right back.

  After being stared down, the county agent had his say. “The Wyoming Kyd could be right, Charlie. There are some animals that can’t be domesticated.”

  Emboldened by this support, Kydmann pointed his chin toward the placid-looking beast. “That’s the truth. And a blind man with both eyes closed can see—that is one of ’em.”

  Looking past the men, down the lane, Charlie Moon saw something else. Topping a ridge, a puff of dust following a motor vehicle. He recognized the automobile. “Among my people,” the Ute said in a disdainful tone, “we take a different view. Our belief is that there are no bad horses. Just bad riders.”

  “Hah!” Kydmann said.

  Moon gave his employee a gentle, fatherly look. “Say whatever’s on your mind.”

  The Wyoming Kyd clamped the white Stetson onto his head, pulled it down so it folded his ears. “You mean that?”

  “I do. You got something rattling around in your craw, spit it out.”

  “Okay, then.” Kydmann took his time to think up the words, say them just right. “In all due respect, sir—it is us cowboys that end up with the bruises and broken legs and cracked skulls. It is your employees who are expected to take the risks.” He took a deep breath. “You have never tried to ride that bronc.”

  Moon took the gut punch without flinching. “There is a reason for that.” The boss of the outfit considered the callow youth with a sad, worldly-wise expression such as managers commonly use to intimidate the help. “It has to do with keeping up morale amongst the men.”

  Kydmann’s blank look made it clear that he did not follow this line of reasoning.

  “I did not want to show off,” Moon explained. Considering who was coming up the lane, he was working up an irresistible urge to show off. “Seeing me break that old nag in a minute flat would’ve made you less-able riders look downright pitiful. Why, esprit de corps would’ve gone right down the drain.”

  The Wyoming Kyd allowed an expression of mild amusement to visit his pale face. “Well, that is mighty thoughtful of you.”

  Moon looked hurt. “I don’t mean to call your word into question, but that remark sounds just the least bit insincere.” He nodded to indicate the equine audience, who had moved closer. Sweet Alice had her neck over the fence rail. “Do you really think I can’t stay on that mild-mannered horse?”

  The Kyd nodded. “Not for long enough to say your prayers.”

  Moon laughed. “You want to lay some cash on the barrelhead?”

  The younger man hesitated. Cowboys were always spitting Trouble right in the eye, but the First Rule around the Columbine was: Never Throw a Punch at the Boss. Not if you wanted to wake up tomorrow mor
ning with your head still on your shoulders. Rule Number Two was: Don’t Never Bet Against the Indian. Luck was always riding along in Charlie Moon’s saddlebags. But this was just too good to pass up. The Wyoming Kyd cocked his head. “Even money?”

  “If that’s the best you can do.”

  Kydmann grinned to display a perfect set of teeth. “I will lay you a month’s pay you can’t stay in the saddle for…for fourteen seconds.”

  “Ten.”

  “Twelve.”

  The stockman reached for his wallet. “You’re on, Kyd.”

  Fifty yards away, in the shade of a shaggy, centenarian cottonwood, the gray Ford sedan was pulling to a stop. The puff of dust that had tagged along behind now waltzed past the automobile, and kept dancing right along till it was gone with the wind.

  45

  The Longest Ride

  As Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague cut the ignition, a grizzled old cowboy approached the FBI sedan, walking with a limp. He leaned to look in the window at the handsome woman, presented a friendly grin through a prickly undergrowth of salt-and-pepper whiskers. “Howdy.”

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He gave her a grandfatherly look. “You lost?”

  “No, I’ve been to the Big Hat before. But I don’t remember meeting you.”

  He tipped his broad-brimmed straw hat. “That’s because I only signed on a few days ago. They call me Dollar Bill, or just Dollar for short.” He waited in vain for her to show some curiosity about how he had acquired this handle. “They call me Dollar Bill, ’cause I keep the first dollar I ever earned in my hat.” D.B. removed his lid to expose a tangle of gray hair. He removed a seventy-year-old greenback from behind the sweatband, which was in almost as sorry a shape as its owner.

  “I am pleased to meet you.” She smiled at the wrinkled face. “They call me McTeague, because that is my name.”

  He beamed at her. “You are pretty as a spotted puppy under a little red wagon.”