Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

“Oh, go ahead and eat your sandwich.” Parris’s smile was making his face hurt. Sooner or later, I’ll tell Charlie that I know he was the one who figured it out. And how McTeague has been bragging about him. But there was no hurry.

  While his matukach friend was uncharacteristically silent, Moon finished his ham-and-Swiss. He cleared his throat. “Could I have a cookie?”

  Feeling guilty, Parris gave him two.

  “Thank you.”

  “Charlie, did you know the feds tracked down the real Clayton Crowe?”

  “No.” Nobody ever tells me nothing.

  “Way I heard it, the FBI had some trouble running him to ground, but they eventually found out he’d volunteered to serve in the Peace Corps. Got sent to Haiti to help some little village clean up their drinking water. Died last month during a cholera epidemic.”

  The Ute blinked at a star that winked back at him. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “Me too.”

  The winds sighed. The galaxy whirled.

  Parris shook his head. “I keep thinking about Mrs. Blinkoe—with her boyfriend living right there under her roof. Well—garage roof. That is really sick. And dangerous.” He rolled the possibilities over in his mind. “If Dr. Blinkoe found out what was going on, he might’ve murdered the both of ’em. And there’s the other possibility. If Mrs. Blinkoe and her so-called brother thought the husband had caught on to what they were up to, they might’ve knocked him off.”

  Moon nodded. “The possibilities for mayhem are almost endless.”

  “Way I see it, Mrs. Blinkoe is hiding out somewhere with her boyfriend.” Parris frowned at the starry sky. “But here at Garcia’s Crossing? I don’t think so. It just don’t make sense that the lady and her main squeeze would pick a spot so close to home.”

  Another pair of headlights was coming from the west. The lawmen watched the vehicle slow to a crawl. And turn. But not into DeSoto’s driveway.

  Parris whispered: “Charlie, it’s coming around the other side of the church. And he’s turned off his lights!”

  They could hear tires crunching in the gravel. Then silence. The automobile had stopped in the weed-choked church parking lot, at the edge of the cemetery.

  The chief of police nudged the tribal investigator, whispered. “Whatta we do now?”

  Moon returned the whisper. “Now we make our move—but slow and easy.”

  56

  An Odious Task

  The blackness was identical to what he had encountered once upon another time. That experience had been in the depths of a limestone cavern in southern Yucatán, where the long-dead Maya had worshipped Kukulcán, their plumed serpent god. It had been sufficiently unsettling, being a hundred yards underground where the indigenous people sacrificed their children to the pagan image. He had been utterly terrified when the gasoline generator that energized the string of electrical lights coughed several times—then stuttered to a stop. The darkness that enveloped him had been complete, as in that awful place where lost souls shall wail and gnash their teeth. But on this occasion, he was not a frightened tourist. This night-within-night was his protective cloak. Still, one must see well enough to get the job done. Just a quick glance, that’s all I need. It was, in fact, all he wanted.

  The intruder held a handkerchief over his nose, scratched a match along the gritty sandstone floor. Illuminated by the yellowish flicker of light, what he saw was even more overpowering than the horrible stench. A panic seized him, he shook the match as if his fingers were on fire. It refused to be extinguished. He put it to his lips, blew it out.

  Even without the feeble light, the horrific vision would not go away. He closed his eyes. Willed the total blackness to return. Begged for it. As if in response to a blasphemous prayer, it did. Soundlessly, he mouthed his thoughts. I must not lose control. This will be a difficult task, but it simply must be done.

  Somewhat restored by this reminder, he reached out. Touched a silken garment. That wasn’t so bad. The man put on a masklike smile. It’s not like I can be harmed by a corpse. He willed his hand to move along the torso. Toward the head. Touching rotting flesh, his fingertips instinctively recoiled.

  The would-be thief could feel a heavy drumming under his ribs. That must have been the neck. Perspiration dripped off his face. Why didn’t I think about rubber gloves? He forgot about the stink, took a deep breath, gagged. It’s only dead tissue. I’ve got to get hold of myself. I’m almost there. Okay…steady now. This won’t take a minute. If it’s too tight, I’ll use the pliers….

  All jutting chin and clenched teeth, Parris felt for the reassuring coldness of the .38-caliber Smith & Wesson holstered under his armpit. It was there. He was ready for business.

  Moon whispered, “Let’s work our way around to the rear of the church.”

  Trailing the Ute—who made about as much noise as a cat’s shadow—Parris worried that he would step on that proverbial twig, which would go off like a two-dollar fire-cracker. “Charlie, if these turn out to be drug dealers, I say we cancel their tickets.”

  Moon ducked an elm branch. “Whatever works for you is fine with me.”

  “Just wanted to make sure we’re of the same mind—”

  There was a eerie, soul-chilling wail that froze both lawmen stiff as posts. But only for an instant.

  In a sprint that left his partner behind, Charlie Moon crossed DeSoto’s yard, vaulted the cemetery fence.

  Scott Parris ran up the lane toward St. Cuthbert’s Catholic Church, found the creaking gate. Stubby revolver in hand, the chief of police went stumbling among the tombstones. After tripping over a root and almost falling, he called out in a hoarse stage whisper: “Charlie—where are you?”

  Moon switched on a small flashlight. “Over here.”

  Aided by the splash of anti-night, Parris hurried toward his friend.

  The Ute was standing at the cemetery’s largest mausoleum, where a rusty steel-plate doorway stood wide-open.

  The older man was breathing hard. “What’s happened?”

  It did not bear thinking about. Much less looking at. “You’d better brace yourself.” Moon aimed the beam through the entrance.

  The hardened cop looked inside the structure. “Oh my God.”

  There was a pair of pink marble vaults, one on each side of the room. There would presumably be coffins inside that held the remains of those long dead to this world. These mortuary details were of small interest to the stunned chief of police.

  Spencer Trottman was sitting with his back against the limestone wall, his wide eyes staring straight into hell.

  Pansy Blinkoe’s rotting corpse was on the dusty floor beside the newly dead man—her teeth clenched firmly on his fingers.

  Moon responded to Parris’s unasked question. “Had to be a heart attack.” Having seen enough and too much, he moved the beam of light onto a red purse that had been tossed under one of the vaults.

  Feeling a sour surge of nausea, Parris turned, leaned against the mausoleum’s outer wall. I will not throw up. I will not throw up. Presently, the queasiness subsided. The chief of police switched on his flashlight, forced himself to turn, look upon the obscenity. “Charlie—I’m guessing you knew Mrs. Blinkoe was here.”

  The tribal investigator nodded.

  “So how’d you know?”

  Feeling as cold as the woman’s corpse, Moon resisted the urge to shiver. “Few days ago, I brought Aunt Daisy out here. While she was talking to Mr. DeSoto, I was watching from the cemetery. Sidewinder led me over to this place, and I smelled something. At the time, I figured it was a dead…” He choked on dead animal. It was a long moment before the tribal investigator regained his powers of speech. “The door wasn’t locked, so I had a look inside.”

  Parris shook his head. “But how’d you know Dr. Blinkoe’s family lawyer would show up tonight?”

  “I didn’t for sure,” Moon said. “It was kind of a shot in the dark.”

  “You can explain that later,” Parris mumbled. He found his ce
ll phone. “I’m gonna call out my entire police force. And some state cops. Till some uniforms show up, we’ll stand guard, make sure the evidence isn’t disturbed.”

  Moon nodded. Especially Mrs. Blinkoe’s purse.

  57

  Early in the Morning

  Two GCPD officers on the graveyard shift were first to respond to the call. They stood guard at the tomb.

  Informed that there would soon be a sizable influx of police, Pokey Joe realized the cops would be followed by a flock of journalists and dozens of curious locals. Already counting the potential profits, the canny businesswoman was making the necessary preparations to cash in. Two huge urns of coffee were perking while she was working. The industrious cook was laying up a supply of fried-egg sandwiches, pork link sausages, and honey-dipped waffles. Make it and they will come.

  Parris and Moon were out by the gas pumps, watching for the first shimmering hint of dawn. Feeling much better after an egg sandwich and a pint cup of 90-proof java, the chief of police cleared his throat. “Charlie, I’m going to ask you some simple questions. I’m hoping for some simple answers.”

  Moon watched the steam rise off his Styrofoam cup of coffee. “I’ll do the best I can, pardner.”

  “Okay, here goes—why did the Blinkoe family attorney show up tonight?”

  Moon closed his eyes, looked backward. Yesterday seemed so far away. “About fifteen hours ago, Mr. Trottman had a visitor.”

  “Who?”

  The Ute thought he might as well tell him. By noon, Forrest Wakefield will be bragging to anyone who’ll listen. “It was a friend of mine. But I want you to know right up front that Wakefield didn’t break any law or—”

  “Charlie, just tell me what’n hell your county agent was doing in Trottman’s office.”

  “First, I’ll have to give you some background. Even though Dr. Wakefield is a highly skilled practitioner of veterinary medicine, and has a steady job with excellent benefits—the man has never been completely happy in his work. He’s always felt called to another, higher vocation.”

  Parris recalled his own youthful aspirations. “Like what—taxidermy?”

  “Even better than that. Wakefield has a yen to be a professional actor.”

  The chief of police was beginning to get a glimmer of the plot. “You sent this county agent–wannabe actor to a clever attorney’s office to commit a sordid act of make-believe?” Parris shook his head. “You must’ve been desperate to try something like that.”

  “Wakefield might’ve fallen on his face, but he didn’t.” Moon took considerable pride in what the amateur thespian had accomplished. “But before he performed for Trottman, we paid a visit to Mr. DeSoto—”

  “Wait a minute—what’s this ‘we’ business?” Parris pitched his empty cup into a trash can. “Am I to understand that you was in on the act?”

  Moon nodded. “To make things look really high-class, Wakefield figured he needed a chauffeur. I drove him out to Garcia’s Crossing in a rented Mercedes. Wakefield tried to bribe DeSoto into telling us what he knew about Pansy Blinkoe. But after a couple of days, we concluded he either didn’t know a thing or wasn’t going to tell us. So late one night, Someone went back to his place and convinced him to return our down payment. That same Someone searched his house and found the white powder in his cellar.”

  Parris groaned. “Charlie, please don’t tell me nothing your favorite chief of police shouldn’t know.”

  “Suits me, pardner. I also drove Wakefield to see Dr. Blinkoe’s family attorney. Our fine actor—who is on a roll by now—convinced Trottman he was employed by an international drug cartel.”

  “Well, what can I say—the vet obviously has a gift.”

  “He certainly does. But he also had some help.”

  “For example?”

  “A bag of Krugerrands and a suitcase full of greenbacks. Enough to buy a brand-new Porsche and then some.”

  “Pardon me for sounding doubtful, but where would a moderately compensated government employee get that kind of dough?”

  “From a citizen who has lots of the stuff.” Several laundry bags full.

  Parris aimed a suspicious look at his sly friend. “Charlie, are you in touch with Manfred Blinkoe?”

  “I can’t say one way or the other. The man either is or was my client.”

  “You’re starting to talk like a lawyer.”

  “I hope you meant that as a compliment.”

  “Hope whatever you want. But let’s get back to this second farce you staged. Your county agent—with a suitcase full of money to help him make his case—convinces Spencer Trottman that he is representing an international criminal organization.”

  Moon nodded. “He also convinced Trottman that Dr. Blinkoe had provided his wife with some information that was worth bushels and bushels of cash—which the big-time bad guys were determined to get their hands on.”

  “Okay, Chucky. You’ve got my attention. What was that something?”

  “Several strings of numbers.”

  “I am cranky and short of sleep. Please keep this simple.”

  “These sets of numbers were for various foreign bank accounts where Manfred Blinkoe had allegedly hidden the cartel’s cash. I’m talking about the stuff that was taken from the hijacked DC-3.”

  The chief of police stared at his Indian friend. “And how did our county agent allegedly come to know about these accounts?”

  The tribal investigator tried not to look smug. “I told him.”

  “And how did you come to know about these foreign bank accounts?”

  “Oh, I didn’t need to know about ’em—I made the whole thing up.”

  “It was a fabrication—a pack of lies?”

  “I prefer to think of my fable as a useful piece of fiction—a necessary element of Wakefield’s script.” Moon was thoroughly enjoying himself. “See, it was a kind of carrot-and-stick deal. If the family attorney could get the information from Mrs. Blinkoe within twenty-four hours, things would turn out very nice for him. If he couldn’t come up with the numbers, Trottman’s chances for a long and happy life wouldn’t be worth a politician’s promise.”

  “And Blinkoe’s attorney believed this wild tale?”

  “He must have. He showed up where he’d left the woman’s body.”

  Parris turned his glare on a defenseless gas pump. “I still don’t get it. If the lawyer was searching for a list of numbers, why didn’t he look in her purse?”

  “Trottman already knew Blinkoe had made his bride a dental plate. And he was led to believe that Blinkoe had etched the numbers on the denture.”

  Parris looked down the road, saw a pair headlights coming up fast. Right above them, emergency lights were blinking. That’ll be the state cops. “So Trottman comes back to the place where he’s stashed the corpse, tries to remove Mrs. Blinkoe’s artificial teeth, gets his hand caught in her mouth…or something.” Something I’d rather not think about. He rubbed at bloodshot eyes, remembered Daisy Perika’s “vision.” “Charlie, what exactly did your aunt know that brought her out here—to this particular piece of nowhere—to look for Mrs. Blinkoe?”

  Moon shrugged. “Only God knows.”

  For the moment, there was no more to be said.

  But across the highway, at the cemetery, there was something to be read.

  GCPD Officer Alicia Martin aimed her five-cell flashlight at a mossy spot above the mausoleum entrance. On a surface just below a slitlike vent, the beam illuminated a simple memorial, which, once upon a faraway time, had been chiseled into the limestone.

  ALONZO MARTINEZ 1851–1912

  PRUDENCE MARTINEZ 1864–1939

  58

  Whatever Lila Wants

  By the time the sun had topped the eastern range, five Granite Creek PD black-and-white units were on site, along with two low-slung Chevrolets from the state-police detachment and a pair of ambulances that would serve as body wagons—all with emergency lights flashing. The cemetery crime scene had been
taped off, thoroughly photographed with film and digital cameras. Physical evidence had been bagged and tagged. Until further notice, three two-officer teams constituted of a Granite Creek PD uniform and a state Smokey would guard St. Cuthbert’s cemetery in eight-hour shifts.

  Jurisdictional issues had been settled. Almost.

  There was the matter of the FBI’s intense interest in what the chief of police referred to as “this weird Blinkoe business.” The way Scott Parris and Charlie Moon had it figured was this: Within minutes of arriving at her Granite Creek office, Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague would hear about the big commotion at Garcia’s Crossing. Moon expected her to show up before 10:00 A.M. Parris thought it would take the fed a tad longer than that. The inevitable wager was made.

  The lawmen were standing in front of Pokey Joe’s General Store when she drove up at six minutes past ten, skidded to a stop on the loose gravel.

  Moon gave his buddy a dollar.

  The good friends waited for the storm to begin.

  McTeague got out of her car, looked from one man to the other, chose the ranking officer. She marched up to Parris like she was ready to punch him out. “What’s going on here?”

  The chief of police gave her an account of recent events, including almost everything Charlie Moon had told him. He provided a brief summary of the “drug cartel” sting Moon’s county agent had pulled off in Trottman’s office, but thought it best not to mention the DeSoto business. If he wants to, Charlie can tell her about that.

  The FBI agent did not give the Ute a second glance. “When you discovered the bodies in the mortuary, why wasn’t I informed immediately?”

  Parris reminded her, somewhat curtly, that Garcia’s Crossing was in his jurisdiction. He was not obligated to inform the FBI. Before she exploded, he told the lady that he would be grateful for all the help he could get from the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  It was like being slapped in the face, then kissed to make it better. Staggered, all McTeague could think of to say was: “Has any of the evidence been examined?”