The Old Gray Wolf (37 page)

Who is this randomly selected, perfectly average citizen who will have the awesome responsibility of accurately representing hundreds of millions? A hint: her initials are D.P.

THE
RESULTS
ARE
IN

Here they are:

It would never occur to Daisy Perika to question the existence of disembodied spirits; as we already know, she is intimately acquainted with dozens of them. And as to the question of whether these wispy wraiths habitually linger in the vicinity of their funerals, the tribal elder knows for a
fact
that they do. According to the old woman who can see dead people (so she ought to know), the ghostly presence usually remains near the corpse for several days after death has undone the tie that binds mortal flesh to that essence of personality which
cannot die
. And why shouldn't they enjoy their big send-off? The Southern Ute tribal elder will look you right in the eye and tell you that any ghost who was born in the good old U.S. of A. has a constitutional right to attend her (or his) own going-away celebration if she (or he) is of a mind to—and then hover around until the burial is a done deal. Do not waste time arguing the point with Charlie Moon's irascible auntie, who will advise you as follows: “Anybody who don't understand that is a big gourd-head!” So Daisy has asserted on several occasions to Charlie Moon or any other well-intentioned ignoramus who happened to aggravate her by raising vexing questions about “what anybody with half a brain knows.”

But the truth of a matter of honest doubt is not determined by who shouts the loudest. Until the matter is finally settled, we may consider apparently conflicting testimony from presumably reliable witnesses. (Daisy insists on being heard again on this subject, and firstly.)

FOND
FAREWELLS
TO
THE
CANTANKEROUS
COLUMBINE
FOREMAN
AND
HIS
SWEET
WIFE

In addition to a crowd of local citizens from all walks of life, practically every ranching family in GC County turned out for Pete and Dolly Bushman's graveside service. The solemnities were performed at the Columbine's small cemetery, which is located atop Pine Knob. Even the eldest of the old-timers managed to ride a horse through the cold, rolling, waist-deep river that waters Charlie Moon's Herefords and alfalfa crop, and not a few of those hardy souls will have crossed over that final River before another winter passes.

How many spirits did Daisy Perika see lurking around the fresh grave site? Dolly and Pete were present (so she says), and the tribal elder reports the visible presence of a half-dozen others. Four of these told the old woman that they'd been buried on the barren hilltop by her nephew. (Such claims cannot be verified; only one of the graves the Ute had filled was provided with a marker—and for good reason.) The shaman also sensed a gathering of
unseen
specters, and these outnumbered the visible spirits. It was Daisy's professional opinion that this latter congregation had been haunting the lonely old graveyard for a long time before the Columbine Ranch was established.

SAYING
ADIOS
TO
THE
EX
-
TEXAS
RANGER AND
HIS
FAVORITE
GRANDDAUGHTER

About a week after Pete and Dolly were laid to rest on the Knob, Charlie Moon and Scott Parris were among dozens of lawmen—mostly Texas Rangers, middle-aged and retired—who attended the burial service for Ray and Louella Smithson on Ray's little ranch out west of Plainview. Neither Charlie nor Scott had anything uncanny to report, and if anyone among the local mourners saw a ghost, that taciturn Texan kept it to himself.

But something did happen that may be worth mentioning. We'll let an old gent by the name of “Turkey” Bob Wilson tell it: “Just as six strong men was a-lowerin' Ray's pine box into that sandy slot in the ground, why here come this rip-roarin' dust devil—and I tell you, it like to blew the short whiskers right offa my chin!” When asked what he made of this curious event, Mr. Wilson replied, “Oh, there's no figurin' these West Texas whirlwinds—I s'pose it dropped by just to make ol' Ray's send-off interestin'.”

Perhaps so.

But more than one old lawman held on to his Stetson and thought as he grinned,
It's Ray Smithson's way of sayin', “See you later, ol' friends—somewhere down yonder where the trail ends.”

THE
PROFESSOR
'
S
MEMORIAL
SERVICE

We refer to the solemn send-off for Ms. Tiffany Mayfair, which staid farewell was conducted in a New England township that shall remain unnamed. Picture-postcard-perfect village though it was, Scott Parris
did not want to go there
. That's what the recently bereaved boyfriend assured himself after he was not invited to attend the affair—which privilege was limited to immediate family members and a few select friends. This latter group pointedly did
not
include an uncouth ex-Chicago cop boyfriend who was four years older than Tiffany's daddy. Scott is getting somewhat long in the tooth to be romancing a fluffy-headed youth, but any honest rowdy in Granite Creek will tell you that Chief Parris is
every bit
as couth as any other big-fisted, hard-hitting hombre you're likely to meet on Copper Street. (And this hardcase is liable to deck you for looking at him crosswise.)

But enough about Scott Parris. The scholarly issue being addressed herein is whether (or not) anyone present at the going-away sensed something that suggested the presence of Tiffany's spiritual essence. (Such as a whiff of her favorite perfume.)

The answer is: we flat
don't know
. Within such hermetically sealed inner circles as that of the Mayfair clan, it is virtually impossible to find a reliable informant.

EXIT
ONE
LEROY
HOOTEN

As her son's earthly remains were deposited in the weedy rose garden behind the crumbling family mansion, Francine Hooten was the only person present to witness the interment. Unless you count Cushing, the butler (who remained a respectful distance away), and the hired man with the rented backhoe, who Francine did not (count him). She did pay the latter citizen the agreed five-hundred-dollar (cash money) fee for digging the eight-by-three-by-six-foot (deep) hole, lowering the bronze casket, and filling it. (The hole, not the casket.) Francine also tipped the hireling a crisp new twenty-dollar bill for tamping the mound of dirt down neatly before chugging away in the sturdy Bobcat.

Though Mrs. Hooten had risked a great deal to avenge her son's death, during the burial she did not shed a single salty tear. Cold-hearted? Perhaps. But do not dismiss the wheelchair-bound woman as a lonely widow who has been bested and beaten. Francine's defeat is real and hard to bear—but temporary. Before she goes away, the lady is determined to have her final say.

Did the mother see her son's ghost? No.

But we shall take note of the fact that the gravedigger was happy to depart from the desolate burial spot. Whether or not he'd spotted something a man would rather not see cannot be determined with certainty. But as soon as he'd returned the backhoe to Polk's Heavy Equipment Rentals & Floral Gifts (a nifty pop-and-mom shop), he dropped in at his favorite tavern. Nothing unusual about that. Except that the sober citizen who chugged down maybe a half-dozen beers in an entire year treated himself to a couple of shots of straight Jack Daniel's. Then a couple more. Before long, the hardworking man had squandered a significant portion of the day's profits at Duncan's Bar & Grill. Before much longer, he fell off the stool, sprawling unconscious on the filthy barroom floor. The higher-class drunks laughed at the unfortunate soul and made unseemly remarks.

Which doesn't prove that Mr. Gravedigger saw anything scary when he put Mr. LeRoy Hooten under the sod.

MISSY
WHYSPER
,
AKA
THE
COWBOY
ASSASSIN

During the next several months, the Federal Bureau of Investigation would apply every means available to modern forensic science in an effort to identify her body. Yes, without success.

Evidently, neither the woman's fingerprints, toe prints, nor DNA profile had been recorded in any database available to the Bureau. There had been some minor dental work done on three molars and a cracked bicuspid, but all attempts to locate the skilled dentist would come to naught. The shady lady had nine known aliases, almost as many Social Security numbers, and motor vehicle driver's licenses from seven states—plus Alberta.

Aside from a three-minute ecumenical service provided by a semiretired Anglican FBI chaplain, Miss Whysper would have no formal send-off to the Eternal Mystery. Her unclaimed corpse will reside in the Bureau's facility in Chicago until it is identified. Or (and this is more likely) forgotten.

As far as we know, no one at the FBI has reported seeing a spirit hovering above her earthly remains. But those feds who tote sidearms and eat bank robbers for breakfast and kidnappers for lunch are a tight-lipped bunch.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

THE GAME-CHANGING DELIVERY

No, not a red-hot fastball sizzlin' over home plate, the introduction of a lovable infant to the light of day, or any kind of murky metaphor you can call to mind. This was one of those
literal
deliveries—and by FedEx. Here comes the truck right this minute—roaring down the Columbine lane, kicking up brown gravel and gritty dust like a wild-eyed bull buffalo on a dead run toward anyplace under the sun but where he's acomin' from.

A marginal note: those high-octane parcel-delivery drivers are endowed with loads of get-up-and-go. They also have tight schedules to meet and not two ticktocks of the clock to waste. Not a few of 'em (and this was one) enjoy making the dramatic high-velocity entrance and do not mind scattering flocks of nervous turkeys, honking geese, or chickens of any description.

Sad to say, Charlie Moon does not keep any feathered livestock.

The sturdy van rolled into the Columbine headquarters yard at high noon
on the dot
. The hyper driver was out of her seat about one heartbeat after the vehicle braked to a stop under a gaunt, lonesome lady cottonwood who's been standing right on the spot for ninety-two years without ever receiving a single string-tied parcel, scented love letter—or as much as a penny postcard from someone who wished she were here. Or there. Whichever.

Such visits were not unusual. An operation the size of the Columbine Land and Cattle Company received at least a dozen parcels weekly from UPS and their major competitor. Charlie Moon knew all the drivers by name and temperament. The AAA member also knew that by the sweat of her brow, this particular FedEx employee was supporting an alcoholic husband, a doped-up, dropped-out daughter, and (on the plus side) two darling grandchildren.

Moon stepped outside the west door of the headquarters to meet this lean, hard-muscled, late-middle-aged woman. He waved as she approached with an armload of cardboard boxes and inquired as she deposited her burden on the redwood-planked porch, “How's the family, Paula?”

The hardworking lady paused long enough to roll her eyes heavenward and say, “As well as can be expected—you got any outgoing today?”

“No, but I'll have a couple of boxes on Friday.”

“Works for me.” She was already marching away to the idling van. “See you then, Charlie.”

THE
EAVESDROPPER

Why was Daisy Perika at a parlor window, peering out between slightly parted curtains? Possibly because the arrival of a delivery truck was generally the high point of the tribal elder's day. That, and the fact that the old woman took an almost childish delight in spying on her nephew—or anyone else who might have private business to conduct. As it turns out, Charlie did. Even though he didn't know it.

WHAT
HE
HAD
DREADED

As Charlie Moon knelt to gather up the parcels, he spotted the return address on a smallish item and his heart almost stopped. But
almost
is a long way from cardiac arrest, and this development was not entirely unexpected.
She hardly ever answers the phone when I call and never returns my messages.
Leaving the other deliveries untouched, he took the deadly thing to the porch swing and seated himself—the rusty suspension chains creaking under his weight. He had no desire to open this parcel that would destroy his last hopes, but his nimble fingers were busy doing just that. And before the prospective jilt-ee could blink, there it was—nestled inside in a comfy bed of Bubble Wrap. The familiar hinged, velvet-covered, satin-lined box.

There was also a small, pink envelope—factory-scented to enhance the wild-rose pattern printed on it. To the grim-faced recipient's nostrils, the fragrance was
funereal
.

THE
RECRUIT

Astonished at her good fortune, Daisy turned to jerk her head at Sarah Frank—a gesture whose unmistakable meaning was, “Come over here
right now
!”

THE
KISS
-
OFF

Setting the jewelry box aside on the swing, Charlie Moon opened the envelope with all the enthusiasm of an about-to-be-lynched rustler who was obliged to dig his own grave. The tear-stained note inside—it was too brief to be considered a letter—would contain no surprises. The doomed groom already knew more or less what his erstwhile fiancée would have penned. And so he made no attempt to read it carefully, as would a man who had some hope left. As he scanned the brief epistle, the disconnected phrases impressed the gist of the message upon his numb consciousness.