The Widow's Revenge

by James D. Doss

  “That’s a pretty fair summary, except for some minor details.”

  Parris’s tone was distinctly suspicious. “Define minor.”

  “Well, for one thing—I haven’t killed anybody tonight. Those four that thought they had me cornered in the machine shop did the job for me.”

  The town cop frowned. “You saying they killed themselves?”

  “More or less.”

  “Pardon me, Charlie—maybe my brain is cold as my feet—but that don’t make any sense.”

  “Once things are sorted out by the FBI and the fire inspector, I expect the medical examiner will find that their deaths—having occurred during an attempt to commit murder—to be accidental.”

  “All right. I can’t hardly wait to hear the other minor details.”

  “None of these yahoos are what you’d call regular employees—they’re all new hires. Temporaries.” Moon took a look through the parlor window; Annie was sitting like a china doll in her chair. “And unless I’m badly mistaken, all six of ’em are from out of state.”

  Parris snorted. “Well, that puts the whole thing in a different light. Practically makes it all right.” But a lawman’s work was not all fun. There would be dozens of forms to fill out. “I’ll need their names, which’ll be about as genuine as nine-dollar bills.”

  “I was never formally introduced to the four that’re dead, but they’ll be listed on Pete Bushman’s roster.” Moon gestured again with his elbow. “But the pair of bad apples in the house call themselves Bill Smith and Annie Rose. Now that you’ve got the lowdown, we can go inside, and you can place both of ’em under arrest. Which reminds me—Smith was packing some heavy artillery.” He passed the confiscated .44 Magnum to the chief of police. “This one’s a dead ringer for those the hardware-store banditos were using.”

  As Parris pushed Smith’s big pistol into his coat pocket, the angina stabbed him hard enough to take his breath away. When he eased himself over to a sturdy redwood chair, the sting branched out from his trunk to twist its malignant way along his left arm.

  Moon frowned. “You okay?”

  “No.” Parris’s grimace was concealed by the darkness. “I’m not.”

  The Ute’s slender form moved closer to loom over him. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing that a long vacation in a Tahiti beach hut wouldn’t fix.” Or sudden death—whichever comes first. As the pain eased, he inhaled a deep, grateful breath. “Tell me what you’ve got on this Smith character.”

  “Aside from some circumstantial evidence, only a couple of things. When he sat down in the parlor and heard that pie-pan crunch underneath him, Smith turned green as pea soup. For a while, he didn’t say a solitary word. But when he did open his mouth, Smith offered me a deal if I’d turn him loose.”

  Parris bit his lip as something like a red-hot poker stabbed him in the chest. The stricken man held his breath until the threat of imminent death had subsided. The best way to ignore the likely prognosis was to keep on talking to Charlie Moon. “So what’s the second thing?”

  “Those prints on Butch Cassidy’s cell phone that the FBI ID’d as a member of the Family—they belong to Bill Smith.”

  “Then he’s a sure-enough bad one.” The chief of police waited for the next pain. “What’ve you got on the woman?”

  “For starters, Dolly Bushman’s nurse was packing a 9-millimeter Glock automatic.”

  Parris’s jaw dropped. “Dolly Bushman’s nurse?”

  “Sure. And five’ll get you twenty she’s the nurse that killed all those folks in the Snyder Memorial ICU. On top of that, Annie Rose knew what was going to happen here tonight—like the telephone landline and cell-phone tower going down—she’d prepared herself.” Moon patted the automatic in his hip pocket. “When the Family’s nurse showed up here a few minutes ago, she wasn’t just packing a pistol. She also had a satellite telephone in her coat pocket. And here’s the nail that puts the lid on her coffin—just like Smith, Miss Rose knew exactly what she’d sat down on.”

  “The second pie-pan gadget.”

  “That’s right.” Scott seems kinda peculiar. Like he’s sick. “There’s no other way to account for all this accumulation of evidence. Annie is definitely Bill Smith’s partner in crime. And I’ll bet you a shiny Morgan silver dollar that Smith will turn out to be Trout.”

  Damn! The latest pain seared Parris’s chest like a white-hot flame. The pasty-faced cop closed his eyes. Well, if it’s time to cash in my chips, I can’t think of anybody I’d rather be with than Charlie Moon. Or anyplace I’d rather be than sitting on the porch here at the Columbine. Well . . . maybe inside by the fire. Cold as he was, Parris found the quiet to be utterly peaceful. Comforting. Like a warm quilt on a chill night. Or . . . Like settling down into a grave on Pine Knob.

  The Ute’s deep voice broke the stillness. “So d’you want to arrest them?”

  Parris managed a shrug.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Oh, nothing much.” The next pain in his chest was not quite as sharp as the previous one, and it was already fading to a dull ache. “Except in the lady’s case there might be another way to account for these so-called facts you’ve been telling me about.”

  “Name one.”

  The hurt was saying Goodbye for Now. Parris’s left arm began to feel tolerably better. “Give me some time to think about it.”

  Moon allowed him a full six seconds. “Time’s up.”

  “Okay, how about this. The lady—what was her name again?”

  “Annie Rose.”

  “Okay. Let’s say Miss Rose’s vocation requires her to carry a satellite phone and a pistol.”

  “Sure it does.” Moon glanced at the woman seated in the dining room. “Her job description included staying in close communication with Bill Smith and those four thugs after the regular phone system was dead, and then helping them massacre every living soul on the Columbine.”

  “Well . . . not necessarily.”

  “Then besides being a homegrown terrorist, what is her vocation? And keep in mind that the woman knew she’d sat down on one of the Family’s pie-pan explosives.”

  I do believe I’m going to live to see another sunrise. Parris helped himself to a double lungful of the chill, damp, ozone-charged high-country air. Thank you, Lord. “Well—and I know this’ll sound like a real long shot—but what if the lady was a cop?”

  “A cop?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “Well . . .” Moon was beginning to feel a bit uneasy. He was right at the edge of queasy.

  Parris flexed his left arm. “Let’s say, just for the sake of argument, that this Annie Rose is a law-enforcement officer. Like, say—a state cop.” A snatch of his nightmare bubbled up from somewhere down there. “Or a U.S. marshal.” He effected a thoughtful pause. “She might even be an FBI agent.”

  Moon blinked. “Annie Rose—a fed?”

  “It ain’t so silly as it sounds, Charlie. Let’s assume—again, just for the sake of a heated discussion—that the lady sitting in your dining room is Special Agent Rose. Then—not only would it make perfect sense for her to be packing a government-issue Glock and a satellite phone—she would’ve been briefed by Bureau explosives experts on the Family’s bomb-making techniques.”

  “That bucket’s got a big hole in it.” Moon shook his head. “If the woman was a federal agent, she’d have told me tonight.”

  “Not if she was working undercover.”

  Moon was experiencing a peculiar, floating sensation of weightlessness. Like an astronaut whose tether to the mother ship has snapped, or a mountaineer who has slipped on ice and is falling from a great height. “Aside from tending to Dolly Bushman, what would an undercover FBI agent be doing here on the Columbine?” Like I don’t know. But he needed to hear Parris say it.

  His friend was happy to accommodate. “Well, Special Agent Rose—if that’s who she is—could’ve been sent here by the FBI to sound an alarm if members of the Family showed up
on your ranch. The general notion would be to make sure nothing bad happened to you, or Daisy, or Sarah. Or any of your employees.”

  “Scott . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “How long have you known that Annie Rose was with the Bureau?”

  “What are you talking about?” He turned his head to avoid the Ute’s flinty gaze, which he could feel in the darkness. “Before you mentioned the lady’s name, I’d never even heard of any Annie Rose.”

  “Okay. Let’s put it another way. How long have you known that Dolly Bushman’s hired lady companion was an undercover agent placed here by the Bureau?”

  “Since Day One.”

  “And you didn’t even drop me the least hint because you’d crossed all of your fingers and toes and swore to keep the secret?”

  “That’s about the size of it. I gave the Bureau my solemn word I wouldn’t tell you. And you know well as I do that out here, a man’s solemn word is—”

  “You’re a regular Boy Scout.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.” Parris wriggled his cold toes. “I knew you’d understand.”

  “What I understand is that I’ve gotten myself into a bit of difficulty.”

  “I bet that’s what General Custer said when he found out he was surrounded by about ten thousand Indians—all of ’em painted up for war and armed to the teeth.” The chief of police pushed himself up from the redwood chair. “Setting this Bill Smith character on an explosive device was shaky enough. But fixing things so a federal agent can get blown apart if she wiggles her . . . uh . . . posterior—that’s going a bit over the top, Charlie. Even for a reckless, irresponsible fella like yourself.”

  “I have kinda put myself on the spot.”

  Now more or less pain-free, Parris was beginning to enjoy this tasty little slice of life. “One I’m real anxious to see how you’ll . . . uh . . . what’s the dang word? Sounds like implicate.”

  Compared to Moon’s scowl, the night’s inky darkness might have been twilight. “Extricate.”

  “Right. This is a spot I’m real anxious to see how you’ll extricate yourself from.”

  The Ute sounded a hopeful note: “There is an extenuating circumstance that I haven’t mentioned.”

  “Which is?”

  As the landscape was illuminated by a white-hot flash of lightning, Moon opened his mouth. “Kaboom! Barroooom!”

  No. The Southern Ute tribal investigator is not the sort of oddball who goes around yelling, “Kaboom! Barroooom!” The dramatic sound-effects were earsplitting peals of thunder, which made it impossible for anyone who was not (like the chief of police) standing within a yard of the Ute to hear what Moon said.

  “You did, did you?” Scott Parris slapped his thigh and chuckled. “Well that’s about the damnedest thing I ever heard of.” Ol’ Charlie Moon sure takes the cake.

  The man credited with taking cakes squinted his eyes at the still-grumbling sky. “I hope the lady has a sense of humor.”

  “An FBI agent? Hah! You might as well hope it’ll start raining two-ounce gold nuggets and lemon drops.” The balding man removed his felt fedora, twisted it to squeeze out about a half pint of rainwater. “So how’re you gonna wiggle your way out of this mess?”

  “I’ll need a while to think about it.”

  “Well soon as you know, take me along for the show.” Parris pulled the soggy imitation of a hat onto his head. “I wouldn’t miss it for all the beer in . . . in . . .”

  “Milwaukee.”

  “Right.”

  “But I’m not taking you along to grin like an ape while I explain myself to the fed.”

  “Hey—I’ve had a tough day. Don’t spoil my chance to have a little fun.”

  “Forget about fun until this business is finished.” Moon aimed a finger at his friend’s chest. “You’re a cop and you’ve got a job to do.”

  “And I bet you’re going to tell me how to do it.”

  “Since you asked, I’m happy to oblige.” Moon seated himself on the redwood chair that Parris had vacated. “While I’m coming up with a rock-solid solution to the Annie Rose problem, you go into the parlor and keep an eye on Bill Smith.”

  “How about I read the bastard his rights and place him under arrest.” Then shoot him down like a mad dog when he does the least little thing I don’t like. Such as looking at me cross-eyed or saying “you know” three times in the same breath.

  “Read him War and Peace if you have a hankering,” Moon said. “But I’d appreciate it if you’d let Special Agent Rose make the arrest.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re gonna need to make all the points you can with her.” Parris hitched his wet khaki britches up a notch and glanced at the unlocked kitchen door. “On my way, I’ll stop in the parlor and say howdy to your female prisoner. I’ll also explain how you’re not exactly the brightest bulb in Granite Creek County, and ask her to go easy on you on account of your mentally challenged condition.” The lawman grinned like a Tennessee possum. “After I’m through sweet-talking the lady, you shouldn’t get more than five years behind the walls, which oughta be enough to straighten you out.”

  “Don’t even so much as think about speaking to Special Agent Rose.” Moon pointed toward the west porch. “You’ll enter the parlor through the front door. Smith’ll be right where he was when you looked in the window—sitting by the fireplace.”

  Fireplace sounds good. But there was a minor complication. “The front door’s locked.”

  “Hold out your mitt.”

  “What for?”

  “I’ve got a present for you.”

  Present sounds good, too. Parris extended his hand for the gift.

  Moon slapped a brass door key on his palm.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  SINNER MAN

  BILL SMITH HAD AGED DECADES SINCE THE CUNNING UTE HAD MANEUvered him to that singular seat by the Columbine parlor fireplace; the villain’s vain attempt to get his fingers on the concealed pocketknife had been the last straw. His gallows eyes stared unseeing at the waning flames; his chin dripped sweat on a shirt already soaked with odorous perspiration. Smith’s face was twisted in that hellish, soul-warping anxiety reserved for those are truly condemned and know it.

  The criminal’s decline was not merely a matter of outward appearance. Deep inside, where his soul lived, an essential essence had withered and died. The once-brash man was almost without hope. Almost.

  Despite everything, a trace of stubborn, mannish pride survived.

  THE SETUP

  The metallic rattle of hard rain on the porch roof was drowning out all the ordinary sounds. What Smith did not hear was of some significance:

  The chief of police turning a key in the well-oiled latch.

  The west porch door gently opening.

  And closing.

  The creak of Scott Parris’s wet boots as the heavy man slowly made his way across the parlor.

  The murderer-torturer-cannibal was intensely aware of only one aspect of the lawman’s entrance—the transient draft from the briefly opened door, which swept across the parlor to swirl up the chimney and blow a puff of gray ashes onto the hearth.

  In his rapidly deteriorating state of mind, Smith imagined this visitation to be the vengeful spirit of one of his dozens of victims. It must be somebody who can’t wait until my ghost crosses over. He sweated harder. I bet it’s that young woman whose two children we roasted right in front of her. Or—and this chilled him to the marrow—It could be that old blind man in Texas we poured gasoline on and set afire. The superstitious criminal blinked at the flames and wondered what eye-for-eye, tooth-for-tooth justice would be meted out on his wretched soul. Maybe I should’ve been more careful about what I did to folks. But such moments of reflection pass all too quickly for those of Smith’s ilk, and the porch door had closed behind him. I don’t feel any coldness now. Indeed, his place by the fireplace was absolutely cozy. And I don’t see nothing. He hoped that the ghost had departed. But he realized that the hateful spirit
was probably lurking somewhere close-by . . . just waiting to get its clammy hands on me.

  Parris was now close enough to reach out and touch the back of the man’s head. I bet he’d jump out of his skin! The lawman resisted the temptation.

  The assassin went tense as a drawn bow when, by some means, he sensed the presence behind his chair. “Who’s there?”

  A gruff voice growled back at him, “Who wants to know?”

  That don’t sound like a ghost. “Uh . . . the name’s Smith.”

  “Well get your lazy butt outta the chair, Smith, and pitch some wood on the fire.” Parris shuddered. “I’m wet as fresh seaweed and cold as a Yukon whore’s heart and you’re sittin’ in my favorite spot!”

  “Well I’d sure do that if I could.” Smith’s hope surged. “Thing is—I can’t get up.”

  “Why not—you glued to the damn seat?”

  “Uh—no.” Not exactly.

  “Well what’s this—why, somebody’s strapped your wrists behind the chair.”

  “That’s why I can’t get up. And because . . .” Smith drew in a long breath, “because I’m sitting on an explosive device that’ll detonate if I get off it.”

  Parris gave his victim the gimlet eye. “Don’t you mess with me, boy—I don’t like to be played for a fool.”

  “No, it’s the honest truth. That crazy Indian put me in this chair.” Smith pointed with his nose. “The explosive’s under the cushion.”

  “That’s about the damnedest thing I ever heard.” The lawman paused as if considering the likelihood of such a thing. “Ol’ Charlie Moon may have a screw or two loose, but I never heard of him making anybody sit down on a bomb.”

  “Well, maybe he never did before, but he sure did tonight!”

  “If Charlie did a thing like that, you must’ve done something to deserve it.” Parris snickered at the chair-bound man. “What’d you do—rustle some of his prize stock? Try to cheat him at poker? Use his personal toothbrush?”