Parris seemed to mull this over. “Well, you’ve got a good point there. I’d hate to see ol’ Charlie do hard time in the slammer.” The chief of police got to his feet with a grunt. “Tell me how you’ll do the trick with this letter opener.”
“The way the Indian explained it to me, the pie pan is insulated from a stainless steel plate.” Smith jabbed his finger at the pillow. “If I stick the blade through the explosive assembly, I ought to be able to short the pan to the plate; that’d drain the charge off the capacitor.”
“Okay. But don’t make your move till I get out of the house.”
“I promise.”
The cop cut the felon loose.
“Thanks.” Smith rubbed his wrists. “You won’t regret this.”
“You will, if you try to pull a fast one—I’ll shoot you deader’n hell.” Parris was not kidding. He laid the letter opener on Smith’s shoulder. “Count to twenty before you start punching holes in things. By that time, I’ll be on the porch.”
“You got it.” Smith took the lethal-looking instrument in a trembling hand. He listened to Parris’s boot heels click away toward the front door. He heard the squeak of the hinges as the door opened. The click of the latch as it closed.
What did the felon not hear?
The chief of police removing his Roper boots and returning stealthily to stand behind Smith’s chair. But not too close. And not too far away.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
SUSPENSE
PULLED THIS WAY AND THAT BY CONFLICTING OBLIGATIONS AND CONcerns, Charlie Moon had compromised by taking up a position in the dining-room end of the dark hallway that connected to the headquarters parlor, where a dangerous felon was (he believed) securely fastened to an armchair. That Scott Parris would have cut the man loose had not so much as entered the tribal investigator’s mind.
Moon’s strategic location served a twofold purpose.
First and foremost, it enabled the Ute to cock his left ear for any suspicious sounds from the parlor. Should Bill Smith get some fool notion and create even the smallest commotion, Mr. Moon would be all over him like Sidewinder on a coyote. The Ute’s sensitive ear strained for the least whisper of sinister activity. It’s awfully quiet. In the absence of any audible evidence, his fertile imagination conjured up ominous scenarios. Maybe Smith’s smarter than he looks. Also worries. I hope Scott’s keeping a close eye on that sneaky cannibal rascal. But of course he would be. The chief of police was one of those rare men you could count on to get the job done.
Purpose number two? While Charlie Moon busily listened, imagined, and worried about what Mr. Smith might be up to, the multitasking fellow was also watching. His entire visual attention was focused on the tense little woman seated at the Columbine dining table. Since her semi-hypothetical question (“I’ve been sitting on an ordinary pie pan—there’s no explosive under the seat cushion?”), the FBI agent had not uttered a word. Which was not necessarily a good omen. On the contrary, her silence gave Moon another thing to worry about. The lady’s thinking things over.
Charlie Moon figured this was one of those either/or situations and resorted to an internal assertion that was both inarguably true and entirely lacking in content: Either she’ll file charges or she won’t. Unable to read Annie Rose’s expression, he estimated the odds to be about fiftyfifty, which is what poker players do when they don’t have a clue. Having no other apparent options, he waited for the outcome. It wasn’t easy: passivity was not Moon’s long suit.
HER CONUNDRUM
Though enormously relieved to learn that she was in no danger of being mangled by a charge of high explosive, Special Agent Rose was not quite ready to celebrate. Indeed, the lady now found herself entangled in a complex situation that presented a frustrating mixture of opportunity and risk. I could still think of a few things to charge Moon with. Then, there was the downside. But if I reveal how he duped me into sitting on a harmless pie pan for almost an hour, the anecdote would become the talk of the Bureau. Her face burned. My career would be toast. It was all so terribly unfair. I was sent here to protect this skinny Indian and his friends, and this is what I get.
Annie hung her head, closed her eyes, and sighed. She would have cried, but FBI agents also have their Code. Weary of sitting, she made an effort to get up. Could not. She cleared her throat. “It seems . . .” This is so humiliating. “It seems that my legs have gone to sleep.”
Moon helped the lady to her feet.
Unsteady, she had no option but to lean against the tall, lean man.
Which Moon did not mind. Indeed, the tribal investigator began to think that things might just turn out all right after all, and decided to take the situation firmly into hand. (What a man.) He put his arm around her slender form. “Soon as your legs feel like walking into the parlor, I expect you’ll want to arrest Mr. Smith.”
Annie Rose looked up at the Ute’s craggy face. The question she dared not ask, could not ask, was in her eyes. Will you keep your mouth shut?
Charlie Moon understood. Perfectly. But the delicate subject had to be approached in a roundabout way, which is to say—a circuitous path. “I might as well admit it, Special Agent Rose. I’ve made a fool of myself tonight, treating you like I did. I’d sure appreciate it if you wouldn’t say anything about it.”
The FBI agent also understood. Perfectly. Annie gazed at Moon with an expression that spoke of gratitude. And trust. And also just a touch of . . . No. That shall remain between the man and the woman.
Suffice it to say, he returned the lady’s gaze.
The deal was done.
But, as is so often the case, there was One Last Thing.
Special Agent Rose glanced toward the dark hallway that tunneled through the darkness to the headquarters parlor. “There’s something I’d like to ask you.”
“Ask away.” She sure does have pretty eyes.
“This Mr. Smith—does the Code of the West apply to him?”
“Yes it does.” The Ute’s face hardened. And one way or another, I’ll make sure he gets what’s coming to him.
Charlie Moon had no way of knowing that what was coming to Mr. Smith was—in a literal sense—just around the corner. And approaching rapidly.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
PARLOR GAMES
THE GRAVITY OF HIS SITUATION WAS NOT LOST ON THE GRITTY FELLOW who had gnawed the heads off writhing copperhead snakes, wrestled twelve-foot alligators, and fought men half again his size with his bare hands. The simple act of pressing a letter opener through a chair cushion would be the scariest thing Bill Smith had ever attempted.
As he tried to find the courage to do what was necessary, Smith’s hand trembled. If I don’t poke a hole in that pie pan at just the right spot, the damn thing’s liable to detonate and blow off both of my legs and mangle my butt and . . . The full extent of the hideous injuries were too horrible to contemplate. But, try as he might, Smith could not evict the haunting images from his mind. He shuddered at the bloody memory of a terrified victim who had panicked and attempted to jump off the Family’s improvised explosive device before it could detonate. And, like that terrified unfortunate . . . I wouldn’t die right away. Thirty seconds of such suffering would seem an eternity. But if I don’t get away from here, I’ll be arrested, tried, convicted, and sentenced. This was a now-or-never situation. I’ve got to chance it. Trying to look on the bright side, Moon’s prisoner had to squint to see just a tiny flicker of light. With a little luck, this’ll turn out all right.
But, unlike courage, luck cannot be summoned up.
And there was another factor that might muddy up the waters. Chief of Police Scott Parris.
If Mr. Smith had been aware of the silent, shadowy form lurking behind his chair, the edgy assassin might have concluded that the Angel of Death had come to snatch his miserable soul.
Parris was no angel. Moreover—and this was perhaps the most unsettling aspect of the situation—the lawman was virtually oblivious to the painful drama being pla
yed out within arm’s length. Whether his mental state was the result of simple stress or could be attributed to sinister machinations in some murky dimension of Reality that lies beyond mortal understanding, Granite Creek PD’s top cop was experiencing the singular sensation of slipping out of his body. Whether this condition was actual or imagined is neither here nor there. What matters is that for all practical purposes—his conscious self was elsewhere.
More specifically, hovering in the midst of that sparsely populated cemetery atop Pine Knob.
While Smith prepared himself for his dangerous task, the lawman behind him dreamed.
Or so it seemed . . .
Episode Seven
His Crime Revealed
Scott Parris stood by the mound of earth whereunder his moldering corpse slept that long, dreamless sleep. As before, it was the graying slab of wood at the head of his grave that fascinated the visitor. The self-mourner mouthed the words as he read them:
SCOT PARIS
U.S. MARSHAL
1822–1877
HUNG FOR
BACK-SHOOTING
It was bad enough that the Indian hadn’t spelled his name right. But Hung for Back-Shooting—what a helluva thing for Charlie Moon to write on my grave marker. And not only that—Who did I back-shoot? The marshal figured it might’ve been the judge’s favorite brother, who was a notorious horse thief and card cheat. Or maybe it was that Sandwich Islands ukulele player over at the Tennessee Saloon that I never did like.
But maybes and mights were distinctly unsatisfying—like slurping up muddy ditch water when you craved a mug of cold beer. What Marshal Parris craved right now were answers. And, though they didn’t put it this way in 1877—closure. This business of insulting epitaphs and not knowing who he’d back-shot was enough to make a fellow bite tenpenny nails in half and spit ’em in somebody’s eye!
As it happened, there was a shortage of both nails and somebodys in the immediate vicinity.
No, that is only half right.
Parris realized that he was no longer alone on the Knob. He glared hatefully at the dark, sinister form of a man. What was so offensive about this uninvited guest? The brazen fellow was sitting on the U.S. marshal’s grave maker. And, as if that that affront were not sufficiently insulting, the newcomer was showing his backside to the marshal.
A man can take only so much guff before push comes to shove. But that is mere metaphor. Parris was way beyond either pushing or shoving. The marshal pulled his sidearm from a leather holster.
As they are apt to do at such moments, faraway on the prairie, a lonely coyote yip-yipped.
Parris aimed his weapon at the man’s back.
In a lightning-scarred ponderosa on Pine Knob, a sooty-black owl hooted.
The lawman’s gristly finger tightened on the trigger and—
TIME OUT.
It is necessary to raise an issue that may prove to be pertinent.
As he is subjected to his unsettling out-of-body experience, Parris’s finger tightens on the trigger of what firearm?
An imaginary 1870s-era six-shooter? No.
The marshal’s finger is tightening on the actual trigger of an ivory-gripped .44 caliber Magnum revolver. Right. The sidearm that Charlie Moon confiscated from Bill Smith, and subsequently passed to Chief of Police Scott Parris on the Columbine headquarters porch. The deadly weapon is aimed directly at Mr. Smith’s spine.
UNAWARE OF the full extent of the trouble he was in, Bill Smith made up his mind to get on with the job. His teeth literally on edge, the felon placed the slender letter-opener blade at his crotch and began the nerve-jangling task of pressing it oh so gingerly through the cushion. The process was exquisitely agonizing. No one could see the assassin’s pained grimace when the tip of the blade suddenly completed its path through the innards of the pillow and touched the pie pan. Okay. Sweat dripped from his nose. So far, so good. Also from his chin. All I got to do now is pierce the thin aluminum pan, and drive the letter opener through the IED—without hitting anything that’ll trigger the detonator—and short the pie pan to the steel plate. He grinned. Then I’m outta here.
The hardened criminal set his jaw.
Clenched his yellowed teeth.
Ditto for an unmentionable orifice situated very near the cushion.
Well, here goes nothin’.
Bill Smith held his breath, made the fateful plunge, and—
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
BOOM!
—A DEAFENING EXPLOSION JARRED THE COLUMBINE PARLOR.
ANNIE ROSE gasped, and clutched at her companion. The IED has exploded!
Charlie Moon held her close for a little longer than the situation called for. “I guess we’d better go see what happened.” But he knew well enough. Scott has shot him dead.
Moon assisted the lady, whose sleeping legs were still dozing, into the parlor to see—
A punctured aluminum pie pan rolling merrily along the parlor floor.
Scott Parris standing behind Smith’s overturned chair. In his hand, nothing less than the proverbial smoking gun. Bill Smith’s .44 Magnum.
The victim?
Mr. Smith was facedown on the hearth. Silent as Death itself. Annie shook her head in stunned disbelief. “He’s shot the suspect!”
SCOTT PARRIS is no longer evening-dreaming about his grave marker atop 1870s Pine Knob, or that ill-mannered stranger sitting on his grave marker who needed shooting. The chief of police is wide awake, cold sober, and well aware of where he is and what he’s done and would not have denied that the act was wholly intentional and had been carried out with considerable malice aforethought. Moreover (as can be seen by the satisfied grin on his face), the GCPD chief of police is quite pleased with himself.
Scott Parris has not shot Bill Smith in the back, or in any other part of his anatomy. Here’s what happened: At that instant when the letter opener in Smith’s hand had penetrated the pie pan, which event had been signaled by a nervous “eeep!” from the chair-bound assassin, the chief of police (who has a mischievous streak) had fired the thunderous shot into the floor beneath Smith’s chair.
Moon and Annie Rose? The Ute and the FBI agent have noticed the bullet hole in the oak boards.
The victim? Mr. Smith is firmly convinced that the IED detonated when probed, that both his legs (along with other essential parts) have been blown off, and that the residue of his body shall expire shortly. This, despite the fact that he feels no pain? Most certainly. Smith has concluded that he is in a state of shock and (if he survives long enough) will eventually feel some considerable discomfort at those locations where said anatomical parts were severed by the explosion. In light of this unhappy expectation, he hopes to expire quickly, forthwith, and without undue delay.
Scott Parris continues to grin like a half-wit chimpanzee. His belly shakes with laughter. Indeed, the chief of police has not enjoyed himself so much in years.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
IT AIN’T OVER TILL IT’S OVER
LOUD ENOUGH TO WAKE THE DEAD? NO.
But, like that fateful “Shot Heard Around the World” on April 19, 1775, at Old North Bridge in Concord, Massachusetts, the resounding boom of the .44 Magnum cartridge fired through the parlor floor by Chief of Police Scott Parris would lead to alarming consequences.
ASOK
His hateful heart still throbs; he is still up there somewhere. But the troublesome fellow will not remain there.
When the sole survivor of the B Team was jarred all the way back to full consciousness by the Granite Creek cop’s thunderous gunshot, he was startled to find himself rather—sorry, there is no better way to put it—out on a limb. More to the point, the felon was faceup, spread-eagled on a sturdy cottonwood branch where his body had rested since being vigorously expelled from the Columbine machine-shop shed when his weed burner ignited the inferno, which incident caused so much commotion and subsequent comment.
The stunned man opened his eyes to the moonlit sky. Where the hell am I? A pertinent
question for one of his religious persuasion. The avowed Satanist blinked several times. Asok’s left eye was out of commission. His left ear picked up a few night-sounds, but on account of a ruptured drum his right one did not function.
Damn. I’m half blind and half deaf.
Not only that . . .
I’m freezing to death.
Ever so gradually, Asok realized why.
I’m naked as a Tennessee jaybird!
The latter assertion was an exaggeration.
True, his scuffed leather jacket, blue work shirt, smelly undershirt, faded jeans, over-the-calf socks, and boots had all been blown off by the violent force of his explosive expulsion from the shed. The single scrap of clothing left on his body was a pair of boxer shorts that were neither white, gray, nor navy. Brace yourself. Asok preferred red Valentine hearts on a pink background, and as if this fashion statement were not sufficient, a multitude of plump, naked infants armed with bows were aiming arrows at the hearts. And though a man who willfully wears such an appalling undergarment deserves not a speck or smidgen of pity, it must be admitted that the felon had awakened to find himself in difficult circumstances. Even so, for a laborer about to begin collecting the Wages of Sin, these misfortunes were merely the loose change in Lucifer’s deep pockets.
As a chill breeze blew some of the soot off Asok’s face, the B Team leader began to get annoyed. Then angry. Finally, downright chagrined. His dander all up, the fellow had one thing on his mind—revenge on that Indian who was responsible for turning a straightforward task into a fiasco. Figuring the best way to get even was to finish the job, he rolled over on the branch and fell about thirteen feet to the ground. A long way down. He moaned softly and ground his teeth. I think I cracked my collarbone.
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