The Widow's Revenge (33 page)

“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.

BILL SMITH HAD AGED DECADES SINCE THE CUNNING UTE HAD MANEU
vered 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?”

“I didn’t do
nothing
.” Smith groaned. “About an hour or so ago, there was gunshots down by the machine shop and then it caught on fire and the roof blew off. I came over to the headquarters to see what was goin’ on, and the boss invited me in nice as you please. He brought me over here by the fire and said, ‘Bill, have a seat and warm yourself.’ And I said, ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ and when I sat down I heard this peculiar noise under the cushion and asked him what it was. That treetop-tall Indian says, ‘Bill, you’ve just set down on a gadget that’ll blow your butt off if you move it so much as a quarter inch.’ ”

“That don’t sound like Charlie.” Parris put on a worried expression. “Unless he’s on one of his drunks.”

“Well, maybe he is.”

In the faint firelight, Parris could see that the whites of Smith’s eyes were yellow. He backed two paces away. “Maybe I ought to go look for Charlie and ask him about—”

“Don’t go anywhere—you’ve got to help me!”

“I don’t know.” Parris backed up another step. “I wouldn’t want to get blown to kingdom come.”

“Please. I know how to . . . uh . . . what I mean to say is—I
think
I might be able to disarm this damned thing.”

“No kidding.” Parris gave him a wide-eyed look. “How’d you do that?”

“Well, I figure all I need is a slender blade.”

What a sneaky bastard
. “Let me get this straight—you want me to give you a knife?”

“Not just any knife—the blade shouldn’t be sharp, or too wide.”
I
might cut one of the wires
. Smith made a slight movement, cringed when the aluminum pie pan crunched again. “I need something dull. Like a butter knife. Or better still, a letter opener.”

Parris took his time thinking about this. “Charlie has an office upstairs. I think I might’ve seen a letter opener on his desk.”

“Then go get it for me.”

“This better be on the level.” The chief of police reached out with a clenched hand. “If this is some kinda sicko joke, I’ll wring your neck like you was a fat chicken for Sunday dinner.”

“I swear on a stack of Bibles—I’m telling you the honest truth.”

“Be careful now. You know what happens to folks that play fast and loose with the Scriptures. ‘Their eyeballs fall out and their socks catch on fire.’ Second Deuteronomy, Chapter Eleven.”

“Uh . . . right. But if I’m lying, I hope I get struck by a lightning bolt!”

“Well all right then.” Parris marched across the parlor to the stairs. “I’ll see if I can find you a letter opener.”

Up the stairway he went. Down the second-floor hallway. Into Charlie Moon’s office, where the desk was barely visible in a soft glow of moonlight.
Looks like the storm’s over
. Parris used a small penlight to illuminate the desk. Nothing on top except for the brass gooseneck lamp, the cranberry-glass vase containing a yellow No. 2 pencil, a ballpoint, and an old-fashioned fountain pen.
My buddy’s a regular neat freak
. He opened a drawer, then another, and spotted Moon’s fancy ivory-handled letter opener. And something else.

An envelope labeled:

TO BE OPENED IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH
C MOON

CHARLIE MOON’S OBJECTIVE WAS CLEAR ENOUGH; WHAT HE NEEDED
was to get on the right side of Special Agent Annie Rose. How to accomplish this taxed his gray matter. After considering one or two complex plots and not a few subtle ploys, he came to a firm conclusion:
I’ll just play it by ear
.

Armed with manly determination, he entered the darkened kitchen with the firm gait of a man who owns the premises. After touching a lighted match to the kerosene lamp’s curled wick, the rancher removed his John B. Stetson hat and headed for the dining room. Mr. Moon approached the table where the lady was seated, her back straight and stiff, her upper lip stiffer.

If Special Agent Rose’s eyeballs had been equipped with high-power lasers, the beams would have burned holes all the way through Moon’s face and out the back of his skull. And Annie would have enjoyed the process. She glared at her persecutor. “Well, where have you been?”

“Outside.” Moon placed his hat on the table brim up, like any sensible cowboy. (So all his luck wouldn’t spill out.)

“Doing what—looking for additional victims?”

He gazed at the angry little woman. Thoughtfully. To enhance the impression of a man who has been engaged in deep meditation, even transcendent contemplation, he said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Fancy that.” About to toss her head in derisive fashion, she remembered her precarious situation and raised an impudent chin instead. “And what did you think about?”

“Oh, this and that.” He seated himself at the dining table. “Like how this has been a stressful evening for everybody concerned.”

“Tell me about it,” she snapped.

“There’ve been gunshots. A fire in the machine shop, and an explosion that blew the roof off. I’ve had to make some snap decisions.”

Annie Rose sniffed. “What is this I smell—the sickening odor of a feeble excuse?”

She does have a sense of humor
. “Now that things have calmed down, I’ve had time to reflect upon my actions.”

“And what have you concluded?”

“That even though there’s plenty of evidence to tie you in with Bill Smith and the Family, I realized there’s just the slightest chance you might be what’s called . . . a victim of circumstance.”

Special Agent Rose arched an artfully plucked brow. “Really?”

“Yes ma’am.”
She sure is pretty when she’s mad
. “And that being the case, I mean to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“How very generous of you.”

Seemingly impervious to caustic sarcasm, the lanky man leaned back in his chair. “While I was outside thinking things over, it occurred to me that there might be some other plausible explanation for you packing a concealed weapon—and being the only soul on the Columbine with a satellite telephone when the landlines and cell-phone tower was taken out, and knowing
what
you’d sat down on when you heard the pie-pan crunch.”

The lady seriously considered spitting in his eye. “I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me—so don’t hold back on account of my not having the least interest in a single word you’re saying.”

“Thank you kindly.” Recalling a trick Aunt Daisy had taught him when he was a twelve-year old, Moon picked up a pepper shaker. He passed it from one hand to the other until it
vanished
.

Annie’s eyes popped.
How did he do that?

The Ute conjurer continued as if nothing remarkable had occurred. “Way I figure it, there’s about one chance in a hundred thousand that you’re some kind of undercover cop.” He closed his empty left hand to make a fist. Opened it to show her the pepper shaker. “You could be a state-police officer.” He made the fist again. “Or a U.S. marshal.” The sly man opened the sly hand to show her an empty palm. “You might even be an FBI agent.”

Where did the pepper shaker go?
“What a preposterous idea.”

“When the notion first came to mind, that’s what I thought.” He flipped
nothing at all
from his left hand.

Annie’s gaze could not help following Moon’s as he watched an invisible something rise almost to the beamed ceiling and hang there for an instant before falling.

The performer caught a solid-as-rock pepper shaker in his right hand, and pointed the object at his audience. “I asked myself—why would an undercover cop be plying her spooky craft out here, of all places?” He placed the pepper dispenser on the dining table. “Then it occurred to me that your assignment might be to stake out the Columbine. Just in case some bad guys from the Family showed up to create some mischief.” He flashed the thousand-watt smile. “What do you think about that?”

A prickly silence preceded the lady’s tart reply. “I am surprised that you were capable of coming up with such an original and complex theory.” Annie raised her chin, which had advanced from impudent to downright insolent. “Are you sure you didn’t have some assistance from an adult?”

“Now that’s an unkind thing to say.”

“Compared to what’s coming, you will consider it a compliment.”

“All I wanted to do was let you know that on the off chance that I’ve made a mistake, I’m sorry as all get-out.”

“I do not doubt it for a second. But being
sorry
is not sufficient to atone for your crimes, Mr. Moon—and I use that word in a quite literal sense. It is a serious federal offense to . . . to . . .”

“To interfere with an FBI agent while she’s pursuing her official duties?”

“Yes it is! And it is far worse to deliberately put her life in jeopardy. And I could go on. But your being sorry—even being bone-headed stupid—does not alter the fact that you have committed several felonies.” She made her hands into tight little fists and leaned just slightly forward, as if pouncing on her victim and punching his face black-and-blue was at the very top of the list of things she most yearned to do. “Almost two hours ago, I called for a helicopter and six armed agents. They have apparently been delayed by the storm, but as soon they discover what you have done, an explosives expert will be dispatched from Denver to get
me out of this predicament. And make no mistake, Mr. Moon—I will relish filing charges against you. I shall clap my hands when you are indicted. I will stand up and cheer when you are found guilty of all charges. And when you are put behind bars for the rest of your unnatural life, I will celebrate with expensive fireworks and pink champagne!”