The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  Her tongue still aching, Annie bit her lower lip.

  The tribal cop seated himself across the table from his guest and took a sip of the sweetish brew. “When I found a couple of your pie-pan IEDs under that blanket on the swing, I don’t need to tell you that I wasn’t overly pleased. Sometimes—especially when I’m surprised—I tend to be a little slow on the uptake. But it didn’t take me long to understand that those explosives weren’t meant for me. Daisy and Sarah were your intended victims—anybody who’s spent even a few days on the Columbine knows that hardly anyone else ever sits there.” He leaned forward to fix a flinty look on the woman. “Now that was a game changer. I made up my mind right on the spot—not one of you outlaws would leave the Columbine alive.”

  Annie Rose was as pale as new-fallen snow at twilight. The terrified woman parted her lips to protest. “If you would just listen—”

  “Hush.”

  She hushed.

  Moon downed what was left of his coffee and pushed the mug aside. “Ever since I found those explosives, all I’ve had on my mind is killing every last one of you. And I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been making some fair progress.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the machine shop. “Four of your friends are already buzzard bait.” He aimed a finger at the parlor. “And Mr. Smith has his butt planted on the same item that’s under your chair cushion.”

  “Mr. Smith?”

  “Go ahead. Tell me you never heard of him.”

  The woman set her jaw. “May I please say something?”

  “No.” Moon got up from his chair. “And don’t ask me to bring you any cookies or cake to go with your coffee.” An enigmatic grin curled the Ute’s lips. “Like I told Mr. Smith—if you need something, get up and get it for yourself.”

  MR. MOON was extremely angry, angry men make mistakes, and our subject had made several. Some of them dandies. Consider this for instance.

  REGARDING THE BUZZARD BAIT

  Stressed as he was, Charlie Moon could still count up to four, and he was correct in believing that was the number of bloodthirsty assassins he had locked inside the Columbine machine-shop shed.

  His error?

  Assuming that all four were dead.

  Three of the brutal criminals had gone on to their reward.

  The exception was the leader of the B Team. Approximately 0.42 seconds after he had ignited the gasoline with his nifty propane weed burner, Asok had been blown through the roof. As a physicist who delights in describing ballistic flight might put it, his body had “. . . followed an approximately parabolic trajectory, rising to an apex of almost forty-two feet, where the relentless tug of gravity overcame the upward component of Asok’s velocity and began pulling him back to earth.” Delightful chaps, these egghead scientists, but they have a tendency to ignore those pesky anomalies. Such as—the thug’s 180-some-odd pounds did not come all the way down—it never hit the ground.

  Really.

  Asok, his hateful heart still throbbing, is still up there somewhere.

  Sad to say, the troublesome fellow will not remain in his suspended state.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  HELP IS ON THE WAY

  SCOTT PARRIS SLOWED JUST ENOUGH TO MAKE A GUT-KNOTTING, TIRE-squealing turn into the Columbine gate; he barely managed to keep his supercharged black-and-white on the muddy lane. The tough ex-Chicago cop grinned and gritted his teeth at the same time. I’ll be there in ten minutes!

  About nine minutes later: “Oh, dammit!”

  About a country mile from the Columbine headquarters, the reckless Granite Creek chief of police rounded a curve on the muddy ranch lane, skidded sideways for about thirty yards before sliding into a ditch full of muddy water, and rammed his unit into a sturdy pine fence post hard enough to flip the sleek Chevy a full 360 degrees so that it landed wheels-down. During this lively process, the driver’s head got banged against the steering wheel five or maybe six times; he wasn’t counting.

  Goodbye, fence post.

  Goodbye, Parris?

  Not quite. Not yet.

  But the lawman had—in a manner of speaking—given up the ghost.

  Episode Six

  Nightmare Finale

  U.S. Marshal Scott Parris stood atop Pine Knob, staring at the windswept spot where the Ute had buried his body. From the weedy hump of earth heaped over the grave, and the rotting wooden marker, it was apparent that quite some years had passed.

  I wonder if ol’ Charlie Moon’s still alive.

  As if in response, a chill breeze whispered over the Knob.

  No, I guess he’s most likely gone now. But I don’t see another grave here, so I guess Charlie got planted somewheres else. Some of his relatives probably folded his carcass chin-to-knees and stashed it in one of them little crevices in Cañón del Espíritu.

  The phantom leaned close to the lichen-encrusted wooden plank and was able to read the whole thing. Name. Title. Date of birth and death. And . . . the epitaph the Indian had burned into the wood. Well I’ll be rode hard and put away wet!

  The U.S. marshal scowled at the grave marker. I hope that Indian rascal’s still alive—so I can hunt him down and haunt the dickens out of him!

  A DANDY plan, but somewhat premature.

  ABOUT SIX miles from the Knob, in the wrecked GCPD unit, Scott Parris’s stunned brain was beginning to stir—and like a shiny spinning lure fastened to the end of a long fishing line, the wandering spirit was reeled in. The first thought that came to him was: I must’ve been asleep and dreaming. He could vaguely recall being on a forlorn, windy hilltop where someone was buried. But the stunned man remembered nothing about what he’d read on the wooden marker. Parris was jarred to complete consciousness by a sharp pain in his head, a dull ache in his chest. I feel like five or six big guys beat me up and pitched me into an alley. No, that couldn’t be right. It wasn’t a fight—I’m strapped into my black-and-white. The lawman strained to remember. I was driving. But what happened? He blinked at the darkness. And where am I?

  Under the singular circumstances, reasonable questions.

  Within a few irregular heartbeats, it all came back to him.

  I ran my unit off the road. I’m on the Columbine, probably not more than a mile or two from the ranch headquarters. I hope the car’s not bunged up too bad. That hope was overly optimistic, but the left headlight was working and the Chevrolet engine idled along without missing a lick.

  I got to get outta here and go see if Charlie’s all right.

  Parris jerked the gearshift into Reverse and stepped on the gas.

  Brrrmmmmm! (The sound of rubber tires spinning impotently in slimy slush.)

  #&$%#! (A heartfelt expletive.)

  Another brrrmmmmm!

  And another.

  All to no effect, as was Expletive Number Two—an unseemly utterance for a man of his respected position in the community.

  The frustrated cop’s vehicle was there to stay until the break of a fairer day. Which dawning, regardless of whatever catastrophes might occur in the meantime, would be dished up shortly.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  ANTICIPATING

  IT WOULD BE AN UNWARRANTED EXAGGERATION TO SUGGEST THAT Charlie Moon was worried about the potential for still more trouble on the Columbine. But he was moderately concerned, and more than a little suspicious. Bill Smith seems to be waiting for something to happen.

  And though it was probably merely a reflection from the flickering kerosene lamp, the tribal investigator thought he detected a confident sparkle in Annie Rose’s dark eyes.

  The combination of Smith’s waiting and Annie’s sparkling was bound to cause a man to wonder. Maybe those two know that a backup team of Family bad guys are outside, getting ready to break into the headquarters and pull off a rescue. That was what had happened at Snyder Memorial Hospital when two other members of the Family had been housed under the watchful eye of the state police. If they can, the Family’ll pull off another snatch.

  Mr. Moon k
new just what to do about that.

  BAITING THE TRAP

  Charlie Moon figured he’d already accomplished most of that task. Like alluring chunks of savory cheese, Bill Smith and Annie Rose were firmly seated—and waiting for their rescue. To make sure this enticement would be seen by the Family’s rats, he opened a pair of curtains in the parlor about two inches, and repeated the operation in the dining room on a south-facing window. Thus prepared, the rancher withdrew into the kitchen, where he snuffed out the kerosene lamp. When the rescuer rodents came sniffing around, they would be bound to spot the captives, and if they decided to break down the parlor door or bust in through any of a half-dozen windows, the Ute would do his level best to make things hot for them. But he had a hunch that before launching a noisy, frontal attack, in which the Family was likely to lose another soldier or two, they would try to find a way to slip in quietly.

  Which was why he unlocked the kitchen door.

  IN THE PARLOR BY THE FIRE

  While Bill Smith knew that a rescue was possible, he did not intend to wait—truckloads of cops might show up any minute now. After agonizing over his limited options, the desperate man settled on a plan. It’s a long ways from being a sure thing. His tongue was dry as a pine chip; his headached behind his eyes. But it might work. Perspiration beaded up on his face. It’s the only decent chance I got. Thunder rumbled in the distance. And with a little bit of luck . . .

  The plan?

  Mr. Smith had a very thin, single-blade folding knife concealed in his wallet, which was in his hip pocket, which was not far from his hands, which Mr. Moon had secured behind the straight-back chair. What did he hope to accomplish with the miniature piece of cutlery? It was a simple two-step procedure. The first task involved freeing his hands—But wait.

  He is about to explain.

  If I could get at my knife without setting this damned explosive off, I might be able to cut through these plastic cuffs. Then, if I poked the blade through the pie pan in just the right spot, maybe I could short out the detonator capacitor.

  If. Might. If. Maybe.

  Four long shots, and every one had to hit the bull’s-eye dead center.

  Damn, what a fix I’m in!

  Sweat dripped from his nose and chin.

  Maybe one of the guys is still alive. And if he is, maybe he’ll look through a window and spot me and . . . Bill Smith groaned. If maybes was silver dollars, I could buy me a shiny little airplane and fly outta here.

  IN THE DINING ROOM

  Sitting stiffly in the booby-trapped chair, Annie Rose seethed with fury. I’m sure my signal was picked up. The storm had probably slowed things down, but it would just be a matter of time before . . . the guys show up and take care of things and then we’ll see what kind of tune Mr. Moon sings! The feisty little woman smiled.

  IN THE KITCHEN

  The tribal investigator’s musings about how he might react to a sudden attack were interrupted by two occurrences, whose uncanny congruence galvanized his attention.

  A sudden, absolute dead silence as the rain stopped on a dime.

  One of those creepy, hair-raising noises that is not an old house settling.

  Cree . . . eak.

  Somebody’s sneaking up on the porch. Charlie Moon unburdened his holster of the heavy revolver.

  Sque . . . eeak.

  He cocked his pistol.

  Creak-squeak.

  Sounds like just one man. The Ute moved across the kitchen floor ever so softly. Imagine a ghost’s filmy shadow flitting over a moonlit graveyard.

  Not so the heavy-footed trespasser.

  Squeak-creak.

  Two hundred pounds. Maybe more. Moon aimed his .357 Mag at a void that would soon be occupied.

  Creak-squeak-creak.

  The last creak was just outside the kitchen door.

  The Ute’s lips moved: Go on—try the doorknob.

  That shiny brass orb turned.

  That’s the way. Now give it a push . . .

  The door opened, but just a crack.

  Don’t be nervous, night crawler. Moon’s mouth twisted into a hopeful grin. Slither right on in.

  The door opened wider. About waist-high, something resembling a cobra’s head thrust itself through the opening. A big fist, grasping a pistol.

  So far, so good. Moon pointed his revolver at an empty space. Now show your ugly face.

  A man’s head poked in.

  The intruder immediately felt the cold steel of a pistol muzzle on his temple, a twisting pain in his chest. “Charlie—please say that’s you.”

  Charlie Moon lowered his sidearm. “Scott, you never came so close to getting your head blown off.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  THE REVELATION

  POCKETING HIS SIDEARM, THE CHIEF OF POLICE TURNED HIS HEAD TO squint at the spot where he’d heard the Ute’s voice. “I took a look through the windows and saw some guy sitting by the parlor fire, and a woman at the dining-room table—both of ’em still as yesterday’s corpses. And you—you’re holed up in a dark kitchen waiting to poke a pistol into my ear. What in hell’s going on here, Charlie?”

  “Everybody keeps asking me that.”

  Parris glared at his unseen friend. “I’ve had a bad evening and I’m in a nasty mood, so don’t mess with me!”

  “Shhh. Keep your voice down.”

  Looking this way and that in the blackness, Parris whispered, “Those murderous Family buzzards skulking about somewheres?”

  Moon took his friend by the elbow. “Let’s go out onto the porch.”

  “I don’t want to go outside.” Parris’s boots might’ve been nailed to the floor. “I been there already and it don’t appeal to me.”

  The Ute insisted.

  Parris grumbled as he stumbled onto the porch, “My unit’s mired up in a ditch about nine hundred miles down the lane, which is how far I walked in this damned ice-cold rain.”

  Moon closed the door behind them. “You must be a little bit damp.”

  “Damp?” Waving his arms, the heavyset cop growled. “Listen, Charlie—damp is what a bottom-eating catfish is. Me, I’m soaked to the bone and freezing my butt off.” And my head aches like a boil. “So be snappy about what you’ve got to say, then let’s go into the parlor so I can pull up a chair beside that other guy and get warmed up.” This plea was punctuated by a sudden, violent assault on the porch roof. The brief lull in the storm was over.

  To Moon’s ear, the racket suggested a humungous dump truck spilling a full load of pea gravel on the Columbine headquarters.

  Tugging sullenly at his sodden felt hat, Parris raised his voice just loud enough for the Ute to hear: “Good Lord, Charlie—it’s raining daggers, pitchforks, and triple-ought buckshot!”

  His internal metaphor outdone, the Ute resorted to a literal interpretation: “Sounds like hail.”

  “I don’t care what it sounds like.” Parris shivered. “Let’s go get our knees snugged up to the fireplace.” As the final syllable slipped passed his lips, the hailstorm ceased as abruptly as it had begun; the sudden silence hinted of worse to come.

  “Before we go inside, pard, you need to know what’s going on in the house.”

  “Okay, Chucky.” The hypothermic town cop stopped shivering just long enough to get in a bone-rattling shudder. “But keep it sh-short and to the puh-puh-point.”

  “There’s been some troubles.”

  Parris understood. “What’s the body count?”

  “When the sun comes up, we’ll find four charred corpses in the machine-shop shed, which is pretty much burned to the ground.”

  “Anybody I know?”

  “Only if you’re on a first-name basis with members of the Family.”

  Parris caught another fit of the shivers. This sounds too easy. “You absolutely sure that all of ’em are stone-cold dead?”

  “Like they’d been buried for a hundred years.”

  The Ute’s response summoned up a snatch of Parris’s dream-memory. The chief
of police suppressed a fuzzy image of the 1870s Pine Knob cemetery. So my buddy’s already taken care of business. Despite his discomfort, the lawman grinned. A fella could know ol’ Charlie for a lifetime and never cease to be surprised. “Sounds like you’ve done a pretty fair night’s work.”

  “The night’s not over.” Moon’s voice was hollow. “And neither’s the work.”

  Parris stared into the darkness beyond the porch. “You figure there’s more of ’em out there somewhere?”

  The Ute gazed in the direction of Black Frog Butte. “Whoever took out the cell phone tower hasn’t been accounted for.” He pointed his elbow at the log wall. “And I’ve got two inside the headquarters—the ones you saw in the parlor and the kitchen.”

  His surprise meter registering off the scale, Parris gawked at the Ute’s dim outline. “Are them two dead too?”

  “Not yet. But I expect they’re thinking a lot about it.”

  Why can’t Charlie talk plain American like everybody else. “What in hell does that mean?”

  “It’s a little complicated, pardner. My guests would rather be anyplace than here. But they’re determined to stay right where they are.”

  After a difficult evening, Parris was dithering right on the edge of testy. “Explain so I can understand.”

  The tribal investigator was pleased to acquiesce to this reasonable request, and after Moon had had his say, Parris stared at his friend through a pair of blue, squinty eyes. “You’re not putting me on—you actually did that?”

  The dead-serious Ute nodded.

  The Granite Creek chief of police was silent for a string of middle-aged heartbeats, the thumpity-thumps arriving at odd intervals. He began by heaving a heavy sigh. “Let me make sure I got this straight. After killing off four of your employees, you’ve got two more with their butts resting on high-explosive gadgets you found under the blanket on your porch swing?”