Came to a decision.
He pulled out of the parking lot, headed in the general direction of that fine place where he hung his hat, and more than that—tended strictly to his own business. The pull of warm hearth and peaceful home was almost irresistible, but before Mr. Moon could enjoy those domestic pleasures, he had a detour to take and an unpleasant task to attend to. One that was likely to ruin someone’s day. Mine, most likely.
ASIDE FROM the man in the van, only one other person had witnessed Charlie Moon’s transient coming and going. Across the street from the hardware store, seated alone at a table for two in the Caffeine High Coffee Shop, this singular individual sipped a cup of black Honduran coffee spiced with genuine Louisiana cane sugar and pure Mexican ginger, and from time to time penciled notes on a small spiral pad. The most recent entry was:
Dk blue Exp CO Pltes entrd ABC pkng lot apprx 8:56 AM
Flwr logo on drv’s dr & sign: COLUMBINE something
BRANCH? RANCH? (Rem—Chck Yel Pges)
Exp Dprtd apprx 8:57 AM
In a potential emergency, such as the high probability of an imminent encounter with an armed officer of the law, the coffee sipper known as Trout was prepared to either (a) set fire to or (b) eat the incriminating pages, and had done so on three previous occasions (two quick burns, one hurried ingestion that led to acute indigestion). Trout was not particularly concerned about the cowboy-hatted man in the big SUV, who was gone now and very nearly forgotten.
BARELY THREE blocks from the hardware store, Moon turned right at a stoplight, then drove another two blocks before turning right again on a shady residential street. The tribal investigator parked the Expedition in front of a Home for Sale sign, opened the tailgate window, and removed an essential tool of his trade from under a blanket. He strapped the weighty assembly around his waist.
SENTRY NUMBER ONE
The young man behind the wheel of the Ford van had an inexpensive walkie-talkie in his left hand, a stainless steel, snub-nosed, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver in his right. He laid the heavy weapon on the seat beside him, thumbed the Talk button on the radio-frequency-communications device. “Skeezix?”
“I’m here, Dag.”
“That Expedition I told you about that came and went—it hasn’t circled back or anything.”
“Glad to hear it.” The raspy voice in his ear added, “But don’t get careless. Keep your eyes on the street.”
Which was just what the subservient sentry did.
Indeed, Dag—who had his gaze fixed on the parking lot and street out front—paid no attention whatever to either of the van’s door-mounted rearview mirrors. Not that it would have helped if he had. The tribal investigator (so those who know him say) had a way of slipping up on you that made him invisible in bright daylight. Surely an exaggeration. But this was a murky morning, and, despite his considerable height, Charlie Moon did have a talent for quasi-invisibility. The Ute was helped along when the heavens opened to spray a hard, slanting rain that turned murky morning into semi-night and suddenly concealed Moon’s dark form.
Add all these factors up and you have the reason why, barely six minutes later, Dag was unaware of the shadowy figure cloaked in a black raincoat who was at work behind the van.
Why did the driver not hear the soft, hissing sounds?
The van windows were rolled up to keep out the chill. Also because the engine was running. Ditto, the defroster fan.
Why was he unaware of the gradual shifting in the vehicle’s stance?
Hard to say.
But Dag’s faculties were not entirely faulty. Indeed, he absolutely lurched at the sound of a big knuckle rapping on his window, went slack-jawed at the sight of the grinning face on the wet side of the glass, felt his heart race as the voice said, “I believe these belong to you.”
The driver dropped the walkie-talkie into his shirt pocket, put his hand on the pistol resting by his right thigh, and lowered the window by half an inch. “What’s that?”
The stranger with rainwater dripping from his hat brim displayed the delicate items between finger and thumb. “A couple of spring-loaded valves.” Moon jerked his head to indicate the back side of the van. “They should be in your rear tires. Inside the valve stems.”
Our scholar (a fine-arts major) had a hard time assimilating complex technical information. “What?”
Moon explained: “When the valve stems aren’t in place, the air comes out.”
At the moment, Dag was also a man of few words. Two of them were “Uh . . .” and “Uh . . .”
The very soul of Patience, the Ute mechanic explained: “Somebody unscrewed these valve stems. That let all the air out. Both of your rear tires are flat as pancakes.”
Dag found a few more words: “Hellfire and damnation!” As an unconscious gesture, he raised the wicked-looking pistol just high enough for the tribal investigator to see it. “Who’d do a mean thing like that?”
A reasonable question. The answer was instantaneous.
Moon jerked the van door open and unhinged the young man’s jaw with a hard right hook that just about took Dag’s head off.
THE STORM that had pulled a curtain over the hardware store parking lot was only mildly frustrating to the observer across the street, who had no way of knowing that Dagwood had been assaulted by a local citizen.
The second person present in the Caffeine High Coffee Shop was a sleepy-eyed Salvadoran whose name tag identified him as an assistant manager; the versatile fellow also served as cook, dishwasher, janitor, and waiter. In that latter capacity, he sidled up to the only occupied table. “You be wantin’ anythin’ else?”
“A double espresso.” The customer amended the order: “No, make that a triple. With sugar and spice.”
The assistant manager grinned. “And everythin’ nice?”
“What?”
“You say ‘sugar an’ spice,’ so I say ‘and everythin’ nice.’ ”
“Oh.” Did I really say that? “Sorry. A slip of the tongue.” Trout smiled. “I meant to say ‘sugar and nutmeg.’ ”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SENTRY NUMBER TWO
THE REAR-GUARD LOOKOUT WAS POSTED AT ABC HARDWARE’S ALLEY entrance, just inside a narrow steel door on the loading dock. The quasi-intellectual member of the team had developed a tendency to while away his time pondering life’s many pernicious perplexities and vertiginous vicissitudes, but only after he had looked up all three words in an unabridged dictionary. At this moment, Dilbert was pursuing his hobby whilst leaning against a small forklift. The malcontent was musing about how unfair the setup was. While Skeezix and Snuffy are up front having fun with the dopey old woman, what am I doing? Rubbing the snub-nosed barrel of a stainless steel, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver thoughtfully against his chin, the young man responded to this question: I’m standing here in the dark, contemplating my navel. A long, self-pitying sigh. I am so totally bored. He tapped the pistol against his fleshy nose. I wish something would happen. Anything. After making this foolhardy wish, he employed his wonderfully fertile imagination in an attempt to envision himself in some faraway, exotic place. A medieval dungeon crawling with rabid rats and ravenous body lice. A dark, stinking chamber where an insane sorcerer brewed up—
Dilbert cocked his ear. What was that?
A rapping on the door? Yes, but very subtle. More like a tapping.
He leaned forward, strained to hear.
Who was that rapping-tapping on his chamber door?
No kind of bird that he would care to meet.
The sentry got a firm grip on his sidearm.
Another rap-rap.
It might be Dag, come around back to tell me something. But if it is, why don’t he just use the walkie-talkie? Maybe the instrument had crapped out. Or maybe Skeezix signaled for radio silence. The sentry whispered, “Who’s there?”
No response.
Guess I’d better go outside and have a look.
Guess again.
Every nerve
fiber in his unwashed body, every pulsing neuron and synaptic junction in his addled brain—all screamed in unison, Don’t open the door!
Did he pay the least attention to this sensible multitude of nerve fibers, pulsing neurons, and synaptic junctions? Of course not. Curiosity trumped them all.
Dilbert’s left hand reached out. His pale, clammy fingers grasped the brass knob and turned it. He pushed the loading-dock door open just enough to stick his head out into the inclement weather.
Aside from rain and sleet on his face, what did Mr. D. get for his trouble?
Sudden, total darkness.
Nothing more.
MRS. JEPPSON
The widow was in her office, tied to a chair. Terrified by what was happening, she could not remember what day of the week it was, much less the combination to the antique Mosler safe. Several stinging slaps across the face had not helped her memory.
A big, burly, black-bearded bear of a man stood over the helpless victim. Laying his stainless steel, snub-nosed, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver on the proprietor’s desk, Skeezix pulled a razor-sharp Buck hunting knife from a sheath at the small of his back. What sort of man was this? Let it merely be said that he enjoyed pressing the cold blade against Mrs. Jeppson’s trembling upper lip. “Now listen close, you old bag a bones. Here’s the deal—either you cough up the combination or I slice off your nose.”
“Go ahead, Skeez—cut her damn nose off and make her eat it!” (This encouragement came from Snuffy, a pale, slender sadist with a blond buzz cut, who had his stainless steel, snub-nosed, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver stuffed under his belt.)
The befuddled old woman whimpered. “Please . . . I just can’t remem—”
“Ah—excuse me.”
The startled thugs turned to see a tall, dark, thin man in a black raincoat standing in the office doorway.
OH, THANK you, God! Mrs. Jeppson used this heaven-sent distraction to stretch her leg. Yes, just one leg. No, the leg did not need stretching. The point was to get her toe onto an alarm button under her desk and press it. Her late husband had informed her about the security system’s several helpful features, but all the widow recalled was that if she pushed on the big button, the police would come. She did not remember Mr. Jeppson’s remarks about the security camera, which was concealed in a wall clock whose face was the very picture of innocence. Sad to say, the alarm button was a long way away, and her leg was inconveniently short.
SKEEZIX WAS the first to find his voice. “Who’n hell are you?”
“The name’s Moon.” As if apologetic for barging in on a private party, the uninvited guest was holding his gray, Sunday-go-meeting John B. Stetson hat in both hands. The right side of Moon’s raincoat had been pushed back to expose the long-barreled .357 Magnum holstered on a belt studded with ammunition. The Southern Ute tribal investigator’s gold shield glistened on his shirt pocket. “It is my intention to arrest you. But before I do, it is my duty to advise you that anything you say may be used as evidence against you.”
The eldely lady stretched her leg ever so hard. Oh, dear—I hope my hip joint don’t pop loose.
Skeezix’s brow furrowed into a perplexed frown. “Did Trout send you to see what we’d do?” He cocked his fuzzy head. “You part a the game—like extra points?”
Mrs. Jeppson got her toe on the button. Pressed it.
“I’m here on behalf of Loyola Montoya.” Moon saw Skeezix’s eyes go flat at the mention the dead woman’s name. “But if you tough guys figure this is a game, either fold your hands—or make your play.”
The tough guys thought it over. Pushing old women around was one thing. This fellow—who was either stone crazy or deadly dangerous—was quite another. Fear gnawed at their innards. But (and their adversary was counting on this) even the lowest sort of vermin will fight when cornered. The fingers on their gun hands flexed, edged ever so slowly toward their stainless steel .44 Magnum revolvers until . . . their fingertips touched the ivory grips.
The shake of the tribal investigator’s head was barely perceptible. Moon’s tone was soft as a summer rain falling on moss. “That’d be a serious mistake.”
Both hands froze.
Skeezix’s lip curled into an ugly sneer. “There’s no way you can draw that big horse pistol before we blow you away.”
Sidekick Snuffy echoed his agreement: “No way!”
“Boys, I won’t argue the point.” Still grasping the brim of his gray Stetson with both thumbs, Moon made no move for his sidearm. Smiling like a kindly uncle, he addressed his blustering adversaries oh so softly—barely above a whisper: “But you’d be well advised to place both hands behind your necks, fingers interlocked.”
Skeezix snickered.
Snuffy snorted.
Snicker and Snort snatched their pistols.
The snub-nosed .44 Magnums spoke simultaneously: bam-bam!
And that was that.
Count two big holes drilled through Charlie Moon’s fine cowboy hat.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE CAFFEINE HIGH COFFEE SHOP
THE LONELY EMPLOYEE OF THE SMALL ESTABLISHMENT WAS STANDING at the window, watching sleet peck at the rain-streaked glass, when over the grumbling of the thunderstorm he heard two very distinct sounds. “Hey—didn’t that sound like gunshots?” Getting no response from his customer, the assistant manager turned to repeat the question.
The smallish table for two was deserted, the triple espresso unfinished.
These Americanos are always in a big hurry. The easygoing Salvadoran ambled over to the table, picked up a twenty-dollar bill, and rubbed it between thumb and finger as he calculated the total plus tax and how much would be left over for his tip. Nothing to write home about, but every dollar counted. He sighed and returned to the window. Almost immediately, he heard a faraway wailing sound.
Sirens.
Damn! Somebody must’ve gotten shot across the street. He chewed on his lower lip. The police will come around looking for witnesses, asking all kinds of personal questions. Such as: “We’ll need your name, address, and a telephone number.” And if you don’t look and talk just right, they’re liable to ask for papers. The undocumented worker hurried away from the window to switch off the lights and hang a Closed sign in the front entrance. After pulling on a hooded raincoat, he evacuated the premises by the alley exit.
RESPONDING TO THE ALARM
GCPD officers Eddie “Rocks” Knox and his partner, E. C. “Piggy” Slocum, were first on the scene, to be followed quickly by a Colorado State Police officer and GCPD Officer Alicia Martin, who escorted Mrs. Jeppson upstairs to a small apartment formerly used by the elderly woman and her husband.
In these familiar surroundings, the spunky widow prepared herself a steaming pot of rooibos tea and opened an imported tin of yogurt-coated cherries, which treats she shared with Ms. Martin. Thus calmed and fortified, the owner of the hardware store proceeded to make her statement to the uniformed lady.
A RUDE AWAKENING
Scott Parris had been sleeping in on this rainy Sunday morning. After his Old West nightmare of being lynched by the Law, the chief of police was enjoying a pleasant dream wherein he relived a 1998 antelope hunt on the wide-open plains south of Raton, New Mexico. He had the crosshairs on a pronghorn when something jangled loudly in his left ear. Parris awakened with a grunt, grabbed the bedside telephone, and was advised by dispatcher Clara Tavishuts that Knox and Slocum had responded to a security-company alert that had turned out to be an armed robbery at ABC Hardware. The officers had arrived at the site and called in to report two men shot dead, two others seriously injured.
“Thanks, Clara, I’m on my way.” The chief of police slipped into a pair of faded jeans and a red felt shirt, pulled on his scuffed Roper boots, and donned the venerable felt hat his daddy had worn in the 1940s. As he sprinted through the front door, the cop stuffed most of his shirttail into his britches. He scooted into the aged Volvo, kicked up a spray of driveway gravel, and skidded sideways
onto the street. He showed up at Jeppson’s ABC Hardware just in time to see Doc Simpson’s team arrive.
Almost an hour later, after two ambulances had hauled the injured off to Snyder Memorial Hospital, and the medical examiner had taken charge of the hardware-store office where the shooting had occurred, the chief of police took the Ute tribal investigator into a storage space in the rear of Mrs. Jeppson’s store. Scott Parris seated himself on a wooden well-pump crate and pointed his finger at a nail keg.
Charlie Moon sat on the small wooden barrel, leaned back against a stack of plywood, stretched his long legs.
“Okay,” Parris said. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight.” He held up a meaty hand, glared at his palm, turned down the little finger. “You show up here shortly before nine this morning and spot a suspicious character in a Ford van parked by ABC Hardware’s front entrance.”
Moon nodded.
The chief of police turned down Finger Number Two. “After making him as the driver for some bad guys inside the hardware store, you drive a few blocks away and park your wheels. You strap on your pistol, walk back, let the air outta the van’s rear tires. And after you show the driver the valve stems, you break his jaw, and—”
“I didn’t have much choice. He had a bad-looking pistol in his hand.”
“Please don’t interrupt me, Charlie.”
The Ute shrugged.
Parris turned down Finger Number Three. “After you take the van driver’s .44 Magnum revolver, you go around back of the store, punch the daylights out of another guy who sticks his head outta a rear door—and you also take his .44 Mag, which is identical to the van driver’s pistol.”
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