Shadow Man (31 page)

The best friends sat side by side in the darkness.

The GCPD chief of police zipped a wool-lined leather jacket to his chin. “You’d never believe it was summertime—it’s cold up here.”

The tribal investigator did not respond.

Scott Parris blinked at a waning moon. “What time is it?”

Charlie Moon pressed the button on his wristwatch, eyed the luminescent green disk. “Eleven minutes past one.”

“When I was a rookie cop, I always looked forward to stuff like this. Stuff that detectives do. But after a dozen times sitting in a car all night, drinking gallons of bad coffee, always waiting for somebody who never showed, always needing to pee—that was enough for me. And this ain’t that much different. There’s nothing to see. Nothing to hear.”

The Ute saw a coyote trot through the cemetery. Listened to a ghostly breeze rattle dead elm leaves.

“I hate stakeouts, Charlie.”

“I hate stakeout partners who talk all night.”

“You have hurt my feelings. I’m not gonna say another word.”

There was a
whuf-whuf
of wings as a famished mouse hunter passed by.

Parris grimaced at the unseen fowl. “I never liked owls.”

Moon hung a Cheshire grin. “Why’s that?”

“Ah, when I was a ten-year-old kid in Indiana I paid nineteen dollars and ninety-nine cents for one of those ‘you can learn to be a taxidermist at home’ courses. You know—the kinda thing that was advertised on the backs of comic books.”

“And you didn’t get your money’s worth?”

“All I can tell you is
never ever
kill an owl.” The failed taxidermist cringed at the memory. “And if you do, don’t skin it. And if you skin it, don’t try to stuff it with sawdust.”

“Unpleasant experience, huh?”

“Write this down in your book, Charlie—owls
stink
. And we’re not talking ordinary stink, like skunk spray or rotten eggs. And taking a bath don’t help; owl stink seeps down deep into your pores, and stays there till you shed your old skin and grow a new covering.”

“I’ll try to remember that.” The Ute hoped for a few minutes of silence.

“And another thing. I feel stupid, perched up here on top of Mr. DeSoto’s roof. Not to mention how it makes my butt ache.”

Several semiclever responses came to mind, but Moon let the opportunity pass.

Grunting, Parris got to his feet. He hung the heels of his cowboy boots over the pinnacle of the peaked structure. “You know who I feel like?”

“Nope.”

“Here’s a hint—I’m a fictional character.”

The Ute chuckled. “Inspector Clouseau.”

“Charlie, that was a cheap shot.”

“Okay. You’re the Fiddler on the Roof.”

Parris’s response was somewhat tart. “Do you see anything tucked under my chin that resembles a violin?”

“Good point. But I’m fresh out of guesses.”

“I’m an animal.”

“Sure. I can see it now. You’re a long-legged stork, about to take wing and fly away to wherever those big white birds go when they get bored with work.”

“You’re not very good at this, Charlie.”

“You have hurt my feelings. I’m not going to guess anymore.”

“I’ll make it dead-easy for you. I feel like that beagle.”

“The one who lays on his back, on top of the doghouse?”

“Right.” Having helped his circulation, Parris seated himself again. “But it wasn’t no ordinary doghouse.”

Moon nodded. “Mr. Snoopy had a pool table downstairs.”

Parris sighed. “My favorite character was Heathcliff.”

“Who?”

“The little bird that flew upside down.”

“That was Woodstock.”

There was a tense silence, during which Parris cogitated so hard it made his head hurt. “You sure about that?”

“Sure enough to give you two-to-one.”

“Forget it.”

“I
can’t
forget it. Matter of fact, I remember every single one of Woodstock’s little feathered friends.”

Parris snorted. “Poppycock.”

“Nope, Poppycock wasn’t one of ’em. There was Bill—”

“There wasn’t no bird in the strip by the name of Bill.”

“—And Conrad, and Harriet. And Oliver.”

“I know a bluff when I see one, Charlie. You’re making those names up.”

“Lay your money down, Chief. I’ll give you three-to-one.”

“I don’t intend to lay no money down on a tilted roof that’s slippery as snail spit.” He could almost hear Moon’s smirk. “Remind me again why two grown men are sitting on top of Mr. DeSoto’s house at one o’clock in the morning.”

“Because you accepted my gracious invitation. And it’s closer to one-fifteen.”

“Why did I accept your gracious invitation?”

“Because it is in your interest to determine the whereabouts of Mrs. Pansy Crowe Blinkoe.”

“Is Mrs. Blinkoe staying in Mr. DeSoto’s house?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Okay, have it your way. But tell me this—what do we do if DeSoto comes home?”

“I don’t know about you, but I intend to be very quiet.”

The chief of police was not reassured. “But what if he looks up here and spots us and—”

“Scott, you don’t need to worry too much about DeSoto coming home.”

“Why?”

“You don’t want to know. Trust me.”

“Trust you? Charlie, you know saying something like that just gets me worried sick. I’ve got to know—so start talking.”

“Okay, pardner. It’s like this—a certain Someone found out DeSoto was using his cellar to stash about forty kilos of cocaine, all in pint-size plastic sandwich bags.”

“Charlie, please don’t tell me
how
you know this.”

“That suits me just fine, pardner. Now, the way Someone figured it, DeSoto was providing a temporary storage location for big-time operators, who were likely moving the stuff up from Juarez.” Moon paused. “You got the picture so far?”

Parris nodded. “I can guess what happens next.”

“No need to guess—I’ll tell you straight out. Mr. Someone found the stash, flushed it down the toilet. Soon as DeSoto figured out what’d happened—and realized the bad guys would skin him alive when they found out their property had gone down the drain—he hit the road. The man was doing ninety miles an hour before he got out of Garcia’s Crossing, which is only about a half mile wide. This is why I have a feeling he ain’t comin’ back anytime soon.”

“Charlie, you should have tipped the DEA, let them handle this DeSoto punk—”

The tribal investigator raised his hand for silence.

There was a pair of headlights off to the west. But the pickup did not slow. The lawmen watched the taillights vanish over a distant rise.

Parris broke the silence. “Let’s just pretend you never said a word to me about Mr. DeSoto.”

“Mr. Who?”

The chief of police sighed. “I’ve got a couple of sandwiches in my coat pocket.”

“What kind?”

“Ham-and-Swiss-cheese kind. Grilled.”

“Grilled sounds good.”

“They should still be warm. I wrapped ’em in paper towels.”

The Ute considered his choices. “Okay, I’ll have a grilled ham and Swiss. You can have the other one.”

Parris gave his friend the preferred sandwich.

“What else’ve you got in your pockets?”

“Cookies.”

“What kind?”

“Pecan Sandies.”

“That’ll be just dandy.” Moon was about to take a bite of the lukewarm sandwich when his friend intervened.

“Hold it!”

“What?”

“You can’t eat that ham-and-Swiss, or have any dessert—not till you tell me what you know that I don’t know.”

“Pardner, that would take a long, long time. I could starve to death.”

“I mean about the Blinkoe business.”

Moon felt a severe case of Stubborn coming on. But the sandwich smelled good, and a Pecan Sandie would sure hit the well-known spot. “It is common knowledge that Pansy Blinkoe has an older brother by the name of Clayton Crowe.”

Parris made a big show of enjoying a cookie, and said with a mouthful: “I am well aware of this.”

“Did you know that the man who calls himself Clayton Crowe is not her brother?”

“Well of course I do.” The chief of police swallowed. “The fake Clayton Crowe was Pansy’s high school sweetheart—a guy by the name of Roger Culpepper.”

The tribal investigator stared at his friend. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Oh, through the grapevine.” Parris smiled in the darkness. “From what I hear, some clever FBI agent figured it all out. Something about genes and eye color. But you’re tight with Agent McTeague, so I suppose you already know about that.” He took a bite from his sandwich. After swallowing, he continued. “While guys like you and me do all right with ordinary police work, it takes those college-trained feds to do the really clever stuff.”

The college-trained Ute made a guttural sound.

“What’d you say?”

“Uh—nothing.”

“Oh, go ahead and eat your sandwich.” Parris’s smile was making his face hurt.
Sooner or later, I’ll tell Charlie that I know he was the one who figured it out. And how McTeague has been bragging about him.
But there was no hurry.

While his
matukach
friend was uncharacteristically silent, Moon finished his ham-and-Swiss. He cleared his throat. “Could I have a cookie?”

Feeling guilty, Parris gave him two.

“Thank you.”

“Charlie, did you know the feds tracked down the real Clayton Crowe?”

“No.”
Nobody ever tells me nothing.

“Way I heard it, the FBI had some trouble running him to ground, but they eventually found out he’d volunteered to serve in the Peace Corps. Got sent to Haiti to help some little village clean up their drinking water. Died last month during a cholera epidemic.”

The Ute blinked at a star that winked back at him. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Me too.”

The winds sighed. The galaxy whirled.

Parris shook his head. “I keep thinking about Mrs. Blinkoe—with her boyfriend living right there under her roof. Well—
garage
roof. That is really sick. And dangerous.” He rolled the possibilities over in his mind. “If Dr. Blinkoe found out what was going on, he might’ve murdered the both of ’em. And there’s the other possibility. If Mrs. Blinkoe and her so-called brother thought the husband had caught on to what they were up to, they might’ve knocked him off.”

Moon nodded. “The possibilities for mayhem are almost endless.”

“Way I see it, Mrs. Blinkoe is hiding out somewhere with her boyfriend.” Parris frowned at the starry sky. “But here at Garcia’s Crossing? I don’t think so. It just don’t make sense that the lady and her main squeeze would pick a spot so close to home.”

Another pair of headlights was coming from the west. The lawmen watched the vehicle slow to a crawl. And turn. But not into DeSoto’s driveway.

Parris whispered: “Charlie, it’s coming around the other side of the church. And he’s turned off his lights!”

They could hear tires crunching in the gravel. Then silence. The automobile had stopped in the weed-choked church parking lot, at the edge of the cemetery.

The chief of police nudged the tribal investigator, whispered. “Whatta we do now?”

Moon returned the whisper. “Now we make our move—but slow and easy.”

The blackness was identical to what he had encountered once upon another time. That experience had been in the depths of a limestone cavern in southern Yucatán, where the long-dead Maya had worshipped Kukulcán, their plumed serpent god. It had been sufficiently unsettling, being a hundred yards underground where the indigenous people sacrificed their children to the pagan image. He had been utterly terrified when the gasoline generator that energized the string of electrical lights coughed several times—then stuttered to a stop. The darkness that enveloped him had been complete, as in that awful place where lost souls shall wail and gnash their teeth. But on this occasion, he was not a frightened tourist. This night-within-night was his protective cloak. Still, one must see well enough to get the job done.
Just a quick glance, that’s all I need.
It was, in fact, all he
wanted
.

The intruder held a handkerchief over his nose, scratched a match along the gritty sandstone floor. Illuminated by the yellowish flicker of light, what he saw was even more overpowering than the horrible stench. A panic seized him, he shook the match as if his fingers were on fire. It refused to be extinguished. He put it to his lips, blew it out.

Even without the feeble light, the horrific vision would not go away. He closed his eyes. Willed the total blackness to return.
Begged
for it. As if in response to a blasphemous prayer, it did. Soundlessly, he mouthed his thoughts.
I must not lose control. This will be a difficult task, but it simply must be done.

Somewhat restored by this reminder, he reached out. Touched a silken garment.
That wasn’t so bad.
The man put on a masklike smile.
It’s not like I can be harmed by a corpse.
He willed his hand to move along the torso. Toward the head. Touching rotting flesh, his fingertips instinctively recoiled.

The would-be thief could feel a heavy drumming under his ribs.
That must have been the neck.
Perspiration dripped off his face.
Why didn’t I think about rubber gloves?
He forgot about the stink, took a deep breath, gagged.
It’s only dead tissue. I’ve got to get hold of myself. I’m almost there. Okay…steady now. This won’t take a minute. If it’s too tight, I’ll use the pliers
….

All jutting chin and clenched teeth, Parris felt for the reassuring coldness of the .38-caliber Smith & Wesson holstered under his armpit. It was there. He was ready for business.

Moon whispered, “Let’s work our way around to the rear of the church.”

Trailing the Ute—who made about as much noise as a cat’s shadow—Parris worried that he would step on that proverbial twig, which would go off like a two-dollar fire-cracker. “Charlie, if these turn out to be drug dealers, I say we cancel their tickets.”

Moon ducked an elm branch. “Whatever works for you is fine with me.”

“Just wanted to make sure we’re of the same mind—”

There was a eerie, soul-chilling wail that froze both lawmen stiff as posts. But only for an instant.

In a sprint that left his partner behind, Charlie Moon crossed DeSoto’s yard, vaulted the cemetery fence.

Scott Parris ran up the lane toward St. Cuthbert’s Catholic Church, found the creaking gate. Stubby revolver in hand, the chief of police went stumbling among the tombstones. After tripping over a root and almost falling, he called out in a hoarse stage whisper: “Charlie—where
are
you?”

Moon switched on a small flashlight. “Over here.”

Aided by the splash of anti-night, Parris hurried toward his friend.

The Ute was standing at the cemetery’s largest mausoleum, where a rusty steel-plate doorway stood wide-open.

The older man was breathing hard. “What’s happened?”

It did not bear thinking about. Much less looking at. “You’d better brace yourself.” Moon aimed the beam through the entrance.

The hardened cop looked inside the structure. “Oh my God.”

There was a pair of pink marble vaults, one on each side of the room. There would presumably be coffins inside that held the remains of those long dead to this world. These mortuary details were of small interest to the stunned chief of police.

Spencer Trottman was sitting with his back against the limestone wall, his wide eyes staring straight into hell.

Pansy Blinkoe’s rotting corpse was on the dusty floor beside the newly dead man—her teeth clenched firmly on his fingers.

Moon responded to Parris’s unasked question. “Had to be a heart attack.” Having seen enough and too much, he moved the beam of light onto a red purse that had been tossed under one of the vaults.

Feeling a sour surge of nausea, Parris turned, leaned against the mausoleum’s outer wall.
I will not throw up. I will not throw up.
Presently, the queasiness subsided. The chief of police switched on his flashlight, forced himself to turn, look upon the obscenity. “Charlie—I’m guessing you knew Mrs. Blinkoe was here.”

The tribal investigator nodded.

“So how’d you know?”

Feeling as cold as the woman’s corpse, Moon resisted the urge to shiver. “Few days ago, I brought Aunt Daisy out here. While she was talking to Mr. DeSoto, I was watching from the cemetery. Sidewinder led me over to this place, and I smelled something. At the time, I figured it was a dead…” He choked on
dead animal
. It was a long moment before the tribal investigator regained his powers of speech. “The door wasn’t locked, so I had a look inside.”

Parris shook his head. “But how’d you know Dr. Blinkoe’s family lawyer would show up tonight?”

“I didn’t for sure,” Moon said. “It was kind of a shot in the dark.”

“You can explain that later,” Parris mumbled. He found his cell phone. “I’m gonna call out my entire police force. And some state cops. Till some uniforms show up, we’ll stand guard, make sure the evidence isn’t disturbed.”

Moon nodded.
Especially Mrs. Blinkoe’s purse.