The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  Lila Mae presented an enigmatic smile that Mona Lisa would have envied. “You shot each of them in the head.”

  He heard himself mumble, “I wanted ’em dead.”

  “And under the circumstances, quite rightly so.” She helped herself to another strawberry. “I understand that you accomplished the task with confiscated sidearms—and shot them through your cowboy hat.”

  “I had the pistols I took from Bad Guys One and Two under my hat.” And cocked. “When Three and Four threw down on me, I barely had time to pull the triggers.” Moon was pained by the bitter memory of the ruined John B. Stetson, which had been his favorite and most expensive lid.

  “This is very important, Charlie.” Lila Mae leaned forward, so close that he felt the warmth of her fruit-scented breath on his face. “Do you recall either of the armed robbers mentioning the others by name?”

  “Sure.” Moon nodded to indicate Scott Parris. “It’s all in the official police report. There was a Dag. And a Skeezix.”

  “I’ve studied the report carefully. Were there any other names?”

  When she touched the tips of her fingers to the back of his hand, the gesture was sufficient to strike Moon dumb. But only for about three rapid heartbeats, when a detail was jarred loose from the depths of his memory. “One of the guys that was bullying Mrs. Jeppson—I think he mentioned somebody.”

  “Good. Can you remember the name?” She squeezed his hand; the effect was electric.

  “Well . . .” The overvoltage, it seemed, had wiped his memory clean. “Uh, no—I don’t.” But it was right on the tip of my tongue.

  “Please try, Charlie.”

  He did. Nada.

  “Can you recall the context in which the name was used?”

  He closed his eyes to concentrate. “Yeah. Under the circumstances, it was a peculiar question. One of the thugs asked did so-and-so send me.”

  “So-and-so?”

  “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

  “No it’s not.” She banged his hand on the table. “This is extremely important. Try harder.”

  He tried ever so hard. Came up empty. “Maybe it’ll come to me later.”

  “It will—and when it does, call me that very instant.” She released his hand. “You have my mobile phone number.”

  “Yes I do.” But after you left town last year, you stopped taking my calls.

  Reading the bitter remembrance in Moon’s eyes, McTeague averted her gaze. “These hardware-store robbers are members of a well-organized criminal gang that has a history of assault, robbery, and . . .” Some rather bizarre practices that I’d rather not mention. “Bureau Intel has been gathering data on them for almost six years. Evidence, though admittedly scant, suggests that we are dealing with a group of closely knit associates. A few are probably old friends, but it is considered very likely that the majority of them are related.”

  At this reference to kinship, Scott Parris’s antenna went up. “Like brothers and cousins and whatnot?”

  “Yes.” Having almost forgotten the cop’s presence at the table, McTeague turned a blank gaze on Parris. “For that reason, we refer to them as the Family.” Her conscience cringed at this half-truth. But it was vital to observe the Bureau’s need-to-know policy. “They are rarely active between October and May, but tend to organize their ‘summer vacations’ around various felonious activities.”

  Parris rolled this over in his mind. “Sounds like a bunch of happy campers.”

  “Yes, don’t they?” McTeague suddenly beamed on the chief of police. “You might expect them to visit the seashore or Disneyland—or, as in this instance, the Rocky Mountains. One can just picture them swimming, playing softball, eating indigestible hot dogs, drinking cheap beer and fizzy soda pop. And we believe that they do.” Lila Mae turned to flash the big eyelashes at Charlie Moon. “After the usual festivities are concluded, the Family turns its attention to other, more serious activities.” The playfulness was absent from her voice. “Under a single person’s leadership—an individual whom I shall refer to as the Supervisor—they plan and execute a variety of felonies.” Again, she leaned toward Moon. “Such as stealing motor vehicles in Topeka, Kansas. And burglarizing a gun store in Lordsburg, New Mexico—where approximately three weeks ago they walked off with ten handguns and four rifles, not to mention three thousand, five hundred and twenty-three dollars in hard cash. After which, they evidently crossed the border into Colorado and selected a remote campsite in the vicinity of Mrs. Loyola Montoya’s home.” She crossed her long legs, allowed a slim black slipper to hang on the tip of her largest toe, which could not be appropriately described as big.

  The lawmen waited for the shoe to drop.

  It would. With a significant plop.

  The narrator was gratified by their rapt attention. “Presumably because Mrs. Montoya made some protest about their presence, Family members bashed in the old lady’s skull and set her home afire.” She paused to appreciate the expressions on the lawmen’s faces, which ranged from startled (Chief of Police Parris) to flinty (the tribal investigator). “Ah—I deduce that you two have not yet been informed about the La Plata County ME’s final report on the autopsy of Mrs. Montoya’s battered and burned body, which was issued—” another glance at her six-thousand-dollar platinum wristwatch, “not quite two hours ago.” Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague was having entirely too much fun. “A few days after disposing of Mrs. Montoya, the Family employed the stolen vehicles and firearms in an armed robbery at Jeppson’s ABC Hardware here in Granite Creek—only to have their carefully planned attempt foiled by one Mr. Charles Moon, who just happened to happen by early on a Sunday morning, while on his way home from St. Anthony’s.” She effected another, more-thoughtful pause. “Which is somewhat peculiar, as Mr. Moon’s home on the range and the ABC Hardware store are in opposite directions from the Catholic church.” Special Agent McTeague waited for a nibble.

  Moon ignored the bait.

  Scott Parris enjoyed his role as bystander.

  This small, increasingly tense drama was interrupted by a discreet tap on the dining-room door.

  “C’mon in!” Parris bellowed.

  A slender waiter opened the door to inquire whether the guests of the Silver Mountain Hotel required any further food or beverages.

  Charlie Moon asked for an eight-cup pot of bubbling-hot New Mexico Piñon coffee and a pint jar of honey.

  The waiter nodded as if this request was perfectly ordinary. Which, for Mr. Moon, it was. The rancher’s preference for sweetening his high-caffeine brew with Tule Creek honey was well known in these parts.

  The nine minutes flat had passed.

  Using a secure mobile telephone, Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague made her call to the Denver FBI Field Office. On the Granite Creek end of the conversation, most of what Moon and Parris heard was limited to terse remarks such as: “Mr. Moon recalled a reference to someone who might have been the Supervisor, but he cannot remember the name.” And: “Yes, I agree. There’s no doubt that it’s an interstate case involving multiple felonies.” Plus the big finale, which gave Chief of Police Scott Parris a nasty surge of heartburn: “Very well. I will advise the local police department.” She listened and nodded. “Of course. Your office is best prepared to deal with the state police.”

  After saying goodbye, she turned her attention to the lawman with acid in his throat and blood in his eyes. “The Bureau will officially take charge of the case at eight A.M. tomorrow, when our team will arrive at Snyder Memorial Hospital to transfer the surviving suspects in the hardware-store robbery to a federal medical facility.”

  Parris was not surprised. The FBI was infamous for taking charge of headline-grabbing cases. He put on his best poker face, which was considered only fair to good by his card-playing buddies. “Why wait all night—why not strap the bad guys to gurneys and wheel ’em away right now?”

  McTeague, who was a bit slow when it came to half-witticisms rampant on a field of sarcasm, cocked her
head at the local cop. “Because it will take several hours to generate the necessary documents, and to prepare the Bureau’s public statement for the morning newscasts.”

  “Oh, right.” To his credit, Parris did not bat an eyelash. “I should’ve thought about all that government paperwork—and how long it takes to put together an effective PR operation.”

  Yes, you should have. But McTeague was not a malicious sort; she felt only pity for the country-hick cop. She was somewhat startled by Charlie Moon’s deep voice.

  “This Supervisor character—why didn’t I see him at the hardware store?”

  “Because that particular individual is the planner. And, though I detest the expression—the brains of the Family.”

  “Sounds like he don’t like to get his hands dirty.”

  Her response was about ten degrees below zero. “If I may say so, Charlie—your tendency to assume that anyone with intelligence and status must be a male is . . . well . . . somewhat off-putting.”

  “I don’t assume any such thing.” It was his turn to lean close to the lady. “When I talk about thugs, saying ‘he’ and ‘him’ is just a habit. Over the years, most of the bad guys I’ve banged heads with were men.” Moon should not have grinned. “But I have to admit that from time to time, I’ve run into some tough-as-nails women.”

  Over the top. The Indian cop had gone a woman too far.

  The tough-as-nails fed made no effort to conceal her displeasure. “Oh you have, have you?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” His sly smile was tinged with a teasing hint of suspicion. “I hope you’re not keeping some big Bureau secret from me and Scott.”

  The lady—who was not sharing everything she knew—blushed.

  He should have stopped right there. But, sensing that he had pricked a nerve, Moon could not resist persisting. “If there’s hard evidence that this Supervisor is a brainy woman of status who plans criminal activities for this so-called Family, I’d say me and Scott have got a right to know.”

  Scott Parris enjoyed a hearty chuckle.

  Special Agent McTeague glared at the tribal investigator. He can be so infuriating!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A SHORT STORY

  IN THE HOPE OF ENJOYING A FEW HOURS OF RESTFUL PEACE, MRS. JEPPson had unplugged her telephone. But, for perhaps the ninth time since dawn, her doorbell said, Brrrinnng!

  “Oh, that annoying thing!” All these newspaper and TV reporters are such an awful bother. The widow groaned herself up from her favorite chair and approached the door warily to press her left eye (the good one) to the peephole. The harried woman had intended (as on the eight previous occasions) to pretend that she was not at home, but this stranger was, in some manner that she sensed but would have had difficulty explaining . . . different. Her eye twinkled in the peephole. And such a nice, friendly face. And, as everyone knows, the countenance is the mirror of the soul. Didn’t some clever person say something like that?

  Before she knew she was going to, the lady of the house called out, “What do you want?”

  “Got some business to take care of.” The nice, friendly face smiled. “I won’t take a minute of your time, Mrs. J.”

  “Oh!” She covered the unpredictable mouth with her hand. I can’t remember anyone but my dear husband ever calling me that. Perhaps this is one of his friends, and no telling where from. The late Mr. Jeppson had a great many friends, scattered from one end of the country to the other. But, as recent events had demonstrated, one could not be too careful. Oh, I don’t know what to do! She shouted again, “Are you a friend of my husband?”

  “Oh, that and more, ma’am.” The caller’s disarming smile flashed like a stray ray of sunlight. “I’m a friend of the family.”

  Well. Curiosity got the better of her.

  Mrs. Jeppson opened the door and invited the stranger into her home.

  Now, whether the claim to being “a friend of the family” was strictly true, and in the sense that the widow was led to believe, this much must be said in defense of the visitor’s integrity: a promise made was a promise kept.

  The business to be conducted was completed in less than a minute. The caller was in and out in forty-four seconds flat.

  How about that.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  GOOD HELP IS HARD TO FIND

  THE INTENSIVE CARE UNIT ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF SNYDER MEMOrial Hospital is comprised of three hallways, joined at the ends to form a U. The nurses’ station, located at the bottom center of that twenty-first letter of the alphabet, has a daytime staff of eight nurses and as many aides, but from midnight until 8 A.M. the ICU is managed by two RNs and an LPN. On this particular night, the junior member of the team had failed to show up. This absence did not annoy her co-workers so much as the fact that, as one of them had put it, “The lazy bitch didn’t even bother to call in so Personnel could arrange for a replacement.”

  As is so often the case, this complaint was both uncharitable and unjustified.

  At twenty minutes past midnight, an energetic, no-nonsense RN showed up with papers from the employment agency. The replacement apologized for being late, and was provided with a briefing that included an introduction to the state-police officer who was night guard for the two patients in adjoining end-of-the hall rooms. The policeman explained that the pair had been arrested in connection with the notorious ABC Hardware Store robbery. John Doe Number 1, aka “Dagwood,” was lightly sedated and had his broken jaw wired shut. John Doe Number 2 (“Dilbert”) was fully conscious and able to speak, but had little to say aside from: “I don’t know anything about any robbery. Don’t even know why I’m here. Can’t remember a solitary thing—not even my name.”

  After exchanging pleasantries with the uniformed cop, the nurse got to work on such essential tasks as waking patients from restful slumbers to dispense prescribed sleep medications. The stand-in also managed to calm the injured truck driver in room 208, who complained that the powerful opiate being dispensed via his IV “. . . isn’t doin’ a damn thing about this awful pain in my left foot.” After reminding the drugged-tothe-gills accident victim that his left leg had been amputated at the knee, the nurse explained the curious phenomenon of phantom pain and assured the man that the dull ache could be alleviated by a cold compress on his forehead, which it did. The medical profession has barely begun to plumb the remarkable efficacy of the placebo effect.

  2:10 A.M.

  State Police Officer Henry Joyce, who had been reading a tattered copy of Christopher Morley’s The Haunted Bookshop, had not heard the almost soundless approach of the rubber-soled footsteps. He was mildly surprised to look up from a yellowed page to see the efficient practitioner of practical medicine carrying a stainless steel tray that was partially covered by a white cotton towel. The cop yawned. “What’ve you got—a tasty little late-night snack for my bad guys?”

  The substitute nurse smiled back. “Afraid not. What I’m dispensing won’t be so pleasant as cookies and milk.”

  “Great big hypodermic, huh?”

  Great big smile. “Something like that.”

  “Well, I hope you stick ’em deep and make it hurt.” Joyce laid his book on another chair. “I’ll have to check out the tray before you go into their rooms. Sorry, rules and all that.”

  No objection was made to this understandable requirement. On the contrary, the nurse had intended all along to demonstrate the procedure that was (allegedly) about to be carried out on the survivors of the botched ABC Hardware Store robbery. Whether or not the cop’s curiosity was completely satisfied remains open to speculation, but this much can be said with certainty—Officer Joyce made no effort to prevent the nurse from entering either room.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PANIC

  WHEREVER THAT THREE-DIGIT NUMBER IS DIALED—BE IT NEW YORK City, Houston, Los Angeles, or Granite Creek, Colorado—the response is reasonably predictable.

  In that serene tone that suggests that in the big picture all is right with the world,
the voice says something more or less like, “Police. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  About nine times out of ten, the trouble reported by the citizen represents no more than a mere flicker in the space-time continuum. The dime her two-year-old swallowed will pass through his digestive tract without ill effect. An officer will be dispatched to deal with the drunken party next door. The smoke you smell is not evidence that your apartment building is going up in flames; it has drifted in from a wildfire in an adjacent state. And then there is call number ten. But even if your husband is choking to death on a chicken bone or some wild-eyed lunatic wielding a carving knife has broken into your home in the middle of the night, never fear—the legally constituted authorities are more than able to deal with the situation. It was in this confident manner that the GCPD dispatcher took the 911 call at 3:05 A.M. “Granite Creek Police. What is the nature of your emergency?”

  For a moment, the only sound on the line was that of someone inhaling a breath. Holding it. Sucking it in again. Then, a raspy woman’s voice: “The nature of my emergency? Hey, I don’t know what the hell’s going on.”

  “What?”

  “Are you deaf as a stone? I said—” the caller was jittering right on the edge of hysteria, “that I don’t know what the hell’s going on!”

  “Yes, I heard you.” She’s scared out of her gourd. A few simple questions usually did the trick. “Please give me your name.”

  “Peggy.” A cough. “Uh, Peggy Rosenthal.”

  “Okay, that’s good. Now tell me where you’re calling from.”

  “The hospital. Snyder Memorial.”