Shadow Man (11 page)

Charlie Moon was crouched behind his aunt’s ancient television. Having removed the rear panel, he was probing around with a screwdriver. The was a crackling noise, followed quickly by an “Ouch!”

Daisy Perika scowled at her nephew. “What’d you do to my TV?”

“I didn’t do nothing to the danged thing. It was the other way around—it
bit
me!”

“TVs don’t have teeth—what’d it bite you with?”

He gave the flyback transformer a dirty look. “With about twenty thousand volts.”

“It’s your own fault. You should’ve turned it off.”

Moon gave her a hopeful look. “How about I bring you out a new one?”

“I already told you, I don’t want no new one—I like my old one.” She got up from her chair at the kitchen table, cupped a hand to her ear. “I think I hear a car coming.”

“It’s a full-size pickup,” the young man said. “Got a shock absorber about to go.” This much he could tell from the sounds made on the rutted lane. He smiled and added: “It’ll probably be a Chevy.”

Daisy watched the big Chevrolet pickup brake to a rocking stop behind her nephew’s Expedition. “You think you’re so smart. Tell me what color it is.”

He studied the dusty innards of the TV set. “Sounds like a gray truck to me.”

“You cheated,” she shot back. “You was expecting somebody.” A thoughtful pause. “Who’s driving the truck?”

Moon scowled at a selenium rectifier. “It was going awfully slow. So I’d guess it was a woman.”

“What kind of woman?”

“Don’t know for sure.”

“Make a guess.”

“Okay. She’s a good-looking young lady. Yellow hair. Big blue eyes. Nice smile.” Very
nice smile.

So he’s met her before. But there are some things men don’t notice.
“What color’s her purse?”

“Uh—black?”

“Red. And you think you’re such a hotshot detective.” Daisy opened the door, stepped out onto the rickety wooden porch. The young woman wore faded jeans and a white blouse that—in Daisy’s view—was two sizes too small. The tribal elder sniffed her disapproval. “Who’re you looking for?”
As if I didn’t know.

The woman glanced hopefully at the Columbine’s Expedition. “I’ve been searching all over the county for Mr. Charles Moon.”

“You’ve found him. Come on in.”

Pansy Blinkoe squinted her big blue eyes at the mean-looking old Indian woman. “Uh—thank you kindly, ma’am. But I’ll wait out here.”

Daisy smiled. “Personal business, huh?”

The pretty young lady flashed a smile that raised the temperature several degrees. “Yes ma’am.”

She is going to
ma’am
me to death.
The grumpy old woman squinted at the offender. “You one of them Texans?”

“No ma’am. I’m originally from Tennessee.”

Ma’am-ing must be spreading all over the country.
Daisy turned away from her visitor. “Charlie, come on outside and talk to this sweet little
matukach
girl.”

After they had walked a dozen paces from the trailer, where the strange old woman was watching through a little window, Mrs. Blinkoe was ready to speak. She had a hard time looking the Ute in the face. “I called your ranch, talked to Mrs. Bushman. She said you were probably at your aunt Daisy’s place, fixing something or other. She gave me directions on how to get here, but I’m afraid I got lost over and over.”

Moon stuck his hands into his hip pockets, smiled down at the doll-like figure. “This is a hard place to find.”

“And you didn’t answer your cell phone.”

“I keep it turned off most of the time.”

“Why?”

“I’ve noticed that when it’s turned on, it’s more likely to ring.”

“Oh.” She almost flashed the pearly smile, unconsciously put a hand over her mouth.

Let’s get this over with.
“What can I do for you?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“You don’t really know?”

“If I did, would I ask?”

She searched his dark eyes, could see nothing there. “It’s about my husband.”

“Dr. Blinkoe all right?”

Her blond head made a jerky nod. “Oh yes, Manny’s just fine. In fact—he’s been
awfully
nice the last few days.” She blushed a rosy pink. “He promised never to—”
This is very hard.
“You remember all that bad stuff I told you?”

“Mrs. Blinkoe, if I happen to hear anything unpleasant, I make a serious attempt to disremember it. Especially when it’s none of my business.”

She looked at her red shoes. “I mean about what Manfred might tell you about the bad things I did when I was in Reno.”

Moon did not reply.

“Did he tell you any of those awful things about me?”
Please, please, say he didn’t.

“No ma’am. He certainly did not.”

Pansy took a deep breath.

Moon thought she would hold it till her skin turned the same color as her eyes.

She let it out. “Well, it’s all true.”

“Look, it don’t matter a smidgen to me what—”

“No, please. I’ve never told anyone about it. But I want to tell you.”

He waited, braced himself for the pain.

Now she looked him right in the eye. “When Manny met me in that restaurant in Reno, my teeth was ugly. I couldn’t help that. But to make ends meet—I did some things a nice girl shouldn’t do. But only twice, that was all. And it’s true I married Manny mostly for his money, and because he made me these new teeth.” She smiled, exposing the merchandise. “The denture comes out. You want to see what I look like without it?”

He shook his head.

“Mr. Moon, I want you to tell me the truth about something.”

I know I’ll regret this, but
…“Okay.”

“Do you respect me?”

That’s easy.
“Yes I do.”

“Do you like me?”

That wasn’t hard either.
“Yes ma’am. I certainly do like you.”

She reached out to touch his sleeve. “Can I call you by your first name?”

He nodded.

“Then you can call me Pansy.” She hesitated. “Charlie—if it was a couple of years ago, and you met me before I went to Reno—before I married Manny—before he made me my pretty new teeth…before I—” She could not go on.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes I would.”

Tears filled her eyes.

He looked away.
I hate it when they do that.

“Right after you left, Manny came inside. He sat down by me and held my hand, and—”

“Mrs. Blinkoe, this doesn’t sound like it’s any of my business—”

“Hush!”

He hushed.

“And he apologized for all the bad things he’d ever said or done.” She sighed. “And you know what else he did?”

He shook his head.

Pansy fumbled around in her purse, produced a large platinum compact. On its face was a five-pointed star—fashioned of tiny diamonds and rubies. “I saw it in Denver last year, just
drooled
over it. I thought Manny’d get the hint, but my birthday came and went, then Christmas, and then our anniversary, so I figured it was a lost cause. Then, last night, he drops it in my lap. ‘Pansy,’ he says, ‘this is for you.’” She stuffed it back into her purse. “Ever since you paid us a visit, Manny has been very sweet to me.” She aimed the Big Blues at him. “And I think you had something to do with it.”

This was extremely embarrassing. Moon looked off toward the yawning mouth of
Cañón del Espíritu,
tried to think of something to say.

“Of course, I don’t expect you to admit it.”

Good.

“Charlie, would you answer me one last question?”

He shook his head.

“But you don’t even know what it is!”

“Sure I do. You still want to know what my business is with your husband.”

“But you won’t tell me?”

“Nope.”

She sighed. “You know what?”

“What?”

“I respect you for keeping Manny’s confidence.”

Uh-huh. Like she-cougars respect jackrabbits.
His dark face split into a wide grin. “Then you’re not mad at me?”

“I am very, very mad at you.” A slow smile parted her lips. “But since you’re so nice to me—I’ll get over it.”
And then I’ll be nice to you.

After the chevrolet pickup pulled away, Daisy watched Charlie Moon mount the porch in a single step. “Who is that white woman?”

Moon was beginning to wonder about that himself. “Mrs. Pansy Blinkoe.”

The Ute elder searched her memory, made the connection. “She related to that funny man with the two-pointed beard?”

“She’s his wife.”

“Well if you ask me, she’s a good twenty years too young for the likes of a goggled-eyed old geezer like that.” A suspicion grew in her mind. “Is Mr. Fork-Beard rich?”

“He’s pretty well off.”

“Hah—that explains it.” She gave her nephew the gimlet-eye. “Is that married woman sweet on you?”

The tormented man closed his eyes, imagined a happier land.
I think maybe I’ll move to Alaska. Build me a little log cabin on one of them offshore islands. One with no telephone. No mail service. No relatives.

Daisy read much into his silence. “You know what—I kind of like that FBI woman you’ve been hanging around with. You know, Lola Fay McPig.”

“That’s Lila Mae McTeague.”

It took all of the Ute woman’s willpower, but she managed to get the words past her teeth: “Even if McPig ain’t an Indian, she might still make you a halfway decent wife.”

“I’m sure Miss McTeague would appreciate the ringing endorsement. If she happens to propose, I’ll keep your approval in mind.”

“Hah!” Hard as Daisy tried, that was all she could think of to say.

Charlie Moon pointed a Phillips screwdriver at the television. “I don’t believe I can fix that thing.”

“Well I never thought you could.” She glared at her victim. “If you was a good nephew, you wouldn’t let me limp along with that old piece of junk—you’d bring me a brand-new television out here.” Her mouth twisted into a wicked smile. “One with a remote control and a great big screen.”

He was all decked out in a captain’s hat, navy blue seaman’s jacket, white linen slacks with thin red stripes down the sides, and white canvas deck shoes. If his face had not been so long, Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe would have cut quite a jaunty figure. The owner of
Sweet Solitude
wore the hollow-eyed look of a wartime sailor about to depart for an unknown, unfriendly port. As if harboring some awful premonition, he gazed at his young wife with a terrible intensity. “Well, I suppose it’s about time I got under way.”

She nodded.

He reached out, gently caressed her golden tresses. “I’ll miss you.”

Wincing slightly at his touch, Pansy turned to look across Moccasin Lake, where a dense forest of willows concealed the northern shore. “I’ll be all right.” She chewed on her lower lip. “When’ll you be back?”

“Oh, about a week.” Blinkoe rubbed at the finger where the ring set with the heart-shaped ruby glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. “Maybe ten days.” He stared at the woman until her beauty made him ache, then followed her gaze to the lake. “You know how it is with me. At least once a year, I have to have some quiet time.”

“Yes,” she said. “I understand.” And so she did.

A pair of blue-black tree swallows swooped low, glided by like ghostly afterthoughts.

Pansy examined a painted fingernail. It had a tiny crack. “Will you call me while you’re out on the lake?” Sometimes when he was away, he didn’t call for days on end.

“Sure. When I’m in the mood, I’ll check in.” He gave her a searching look. “Will you be here in the evenings?”

She looked up quickly. “Where else would I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just thought you might go into town with your brother.” He frowned at Clayton Crowe’s apartment over the garage. Something moved at the window.
So my brother-in-law is up and about. The lazy, good-for-nothing bastard!
“You two could have a nice dinner at Corky’s Barbecue. Or maybe take in a movie at the Lido.”

“I don’t know—Clayton don’t like to go out much.” She bit at the offending fingernail. “I may go to town by myself. If you call and I’m not here, just leave me a message on the machine.” She shot him a brittle look. “I’ll get back to you—when I’m in the mood.”

“Look, honey-bun…” He started to reach for her with both hands.

Pansy had already turned, was walking way. Without glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Hope you don’t get too lonesome out there.”

M. W. Blinkoe stared as his shapely wife made her alluring way up the winding flagstone path. He watched the door close behind her, waited for her face to appear at a window. It did not.

He boarded the luxurious houseboat, climbed the metal stairway, started up the twin Mercury engines. After checking the gauges, he returned to the lower deck, untied the nylon rope hitched to the dock post, cast off for an uncertain destination.

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ dam was nineteen miles west of the Blinkoe residence. At sunset, the captain of
Sweet Solitude
was almost halfway there. He pulled closer to the northern shore, within a hundred yards of a jutting sandstone formation known as Whiskey Point. He shut down the engines, dropped anchor.

Blinkoe pottered around the immaculate galley until he had made himself a Polish-ham sandwich on pumpernickel rye, heated up a helping of Bear Creek Cheddar-Potato Soup. He placed the sandwich on a flowered china plate, ladled the soup into a matching bowl. After his supper, he checked his nine-thousand-dollar Bern Aristocrat wristwatch. Not quite nine
P.M
. He cleaned off the dinette table, turned on the CD player, listened to a splendid rendition of Schubert’s
Death and the Maiden
while watching the moonlit ripples on the water. Finally, he broke out a new deck of cards, tested his wits at a lonely game of solitaire. Blinkoe toyed around with Joker Canfield, Mother’s Klondike, Westcliff. Nothing worked; the cards stubbornly refused to cooperate. The disgruntled man made a stab at Devil’s Despair. The game was aptly named. He pushed the recalcitrant deck aside, stared at the window, saw only a sad-faced reflection.
What is to become of me?

Instantly, he felt a sharp pain in his lower back, near his left kidney. Blinkoe ground his teeth. “I
wish
you would not do that!” A pause. “I have a lot to think about—now please don’t pester me.” He listened intently, nodded at the amorphous shadow that had materialized. “Yes, of course I realize we’re in this together. But you’re certainly not helping the situation. Just this once, trust me.” Gradually, the ache subsided. As it did, the Shadow Man faded into nothingness.

Once the heavy part of midnight had settled onto the lake, it was so quiet that Blinkoe could hear his heart thumping and pumping.
I’d give a thousand bucks to have somebody here to play me just one hand of poker.
He could think of only one thing to do. The cardsharp returned to solitaire, where he would sink to that most degrading of behaviors—cheating himself.

Long after his normal bedtime, Blinkoe was still wide awake. Still cheating. He did not hear the new sound on the lake—under the sigh and whisper of waters breaking on the shore, it was virtually undetectable.

Silent as an ebony swan, the sooty-tinted rubber boat skimmed across the water. The two men in the small craft were dressed in flat black nylon jumpsuits. They did not speak, carried no identification. But on his webbed belt, each wore a canvas-holstered 9-mm automatic pistol and a sheath knife with a four-inch ceramic blade. Along with other essential tools of their trade, a Czech-made submachine gun was packed in a waterproof case. The professionals boarded the
Sweet Solitude
without the least notice from the captain of the vessel. He was unaware of the visitors until one of them touched him on the neck.

Blinkoe yelped, flung his cards across the deck.

Less than an hour later, a pair of men paddled the rubber boat back toward Whiskey Point. Only seconds after they stepped ashore, a violent explosion lifted the houseboat off the surface of Moccasin Lake. A few thousand fragments—including bits and pieces of the unfortunate occupant of the luxury craft—were scattered over the waters. For several minutes, a greasy scum of diesel fuel and rubbish burned on the surface of the lake.

Quite soon, all was peaceful again. Serenely silent.

Until a famished cutthroat trout broke the surface, took a tasty chunk of flesh.

Two days later

Since she had occupied the small office in Granite Creek, one event in Lila Mae McTeague’s life had been quite predictable. If she was not at her desk, she made the call on her cell phone at 3:58
P.M
. If she did not, the Man would call her office telephone precisely two minutes later. Today she was in the office. At 3:59
P.M
., the FBI special agent took a small key from her purse, opened the desk drawer where the cipher telephone was concealed. At 3:59:30, the elegant lady removed a pearl earring from her right ear. She watched the second hand rotate around the face of the Seth Thomas clock. At two seconds before four o’clock, the telephone buzzed. She picked up the receiver. “McTeague here.”

The assistant special agent in charge of the Denver Field Office requested that she deliver her daily briefing.

From previous experience with the assistant SAC, McTeague understood that “briefing” implied
brief.
“I had a late lunch with Chief of Police Scott Parris. He reports that state and local police and Lake Patrol Authority have recovered a considerable amount of wreckage from Moccasin Lake. Condition of the fragments suggests a powerful explosion, followed by a fire. Working hypothesis is that someone placed a packet of HE on board prior to departure from the Blinkoe dock. The detonator could have been fired by remote radio control, or by an attached timer. I think it more likely that someone boarded the vessel while it was at anchor and—”

The Denver SAC interrupted with a pointed question.

“Yes sir. Even though no remains have been recovered, Dr. Blinkoe is presumed dead. In the event human tissue should be found, the state police will submit samples for DNA analysis, but Dr. Blinkoe has no known living relatives.” A pause. “Yes sir, that is correct—the presumed victim was an orphan. The other possibility would be to examine his medical history, determine whether there are any extant tissue samples to compare to—” She grimaced at the harsh voice in her ear, nodded at the invisible supervisor. “Yes sir. I realize that you know that. I merely intended to—” Another nod. “Yes sir. Good-bye, sir.” Special Agent McTeague returned the headset to the cradle, slammed her desk drawer shut.
Crabby old goat!