The Witch's Tongue (25 page)

A wet night had yielded to a damp, gray dawn.

Charlie Moon pulled the red pickup onto the paved driveway, braked it to a stop at the main entrance to the Cassidy mansion. Sidewinder, who had hitched a ride, awakened, raised his head, yawned to display an intimidating array of yellowed teeth. The beast took a look out the window, rattled a low growl, turned to give the Ute a questioning look.

Moon cut the engine, patted the hound’s shoulder. “Don’t fret. I won’t be gone long.”

Overhead, thunder mumbled an ominous warning. A few fat drops plopped on the windshield.

The tribal investigator buttoned his denim jacket, took long strides toward the porch. A new door had been installed since his previous visit, presumably to deter burglars. Familiar with such equipment, the lawman knew there would be a slice of quarter-inch steel plate sandwiched between the heavy oak panels. Also new was the brass knocker. It was a smirking monkey’s face, biting on a heavy ring. Ignoring the simian grin, he rapped his knuckles on the reinforced door. After a moment, there was a dry crackling of static behind a metallic grille, then Bertram Cassidy’s high-pitched pixie voice on the intercom speaker: “Pray, who is it tapping on the manor door—some homeless soul in search of a crust of black bread, a mug of mulled mead?”

Moon heard the hum of a television camera hunting impotently for a target.

Bertie’s voice took on a nervous edge as he mumbled to himself, “Oh parrot pimples and tadpole feathers—I cannot see a thing on this pathetic monitor.”

Moon smiled at the monkey face on the door knocker, which bore a remarkable resemblance to Bertram Cassidy. He imagined the chubby man twiddling with the controls on his aunt’s complex new protective system. “Try turning up the brightness control,” he said. “And it might help if you adjusted the contrast.”

There was a tone of hope in Bertie’s response. “Charlie Moon—are you the owner of that disembodied voice?”

The rain began to fall in sheets.

The remote-controlled camera swiveled, a burst of ultrasound automatically focused a telescopic lens on the Ute’s profile. “Ah yes, I can make you out rather clearly now.” Quite pleased with his control over the high-tech toy, Bertie chuckled like a happy little boy. “What do you want?”

Moon turned to return the camera’s cold, Cyclops stare. Water dripped off the brim of his black Stetson. “For starters, I’d like to come in outta the rain.”

“Well, of course you would—great toasted marshmallows, where have my aristocratic manners gone? Just a moment; I must find the right button to poke.” After a few muffled mutterings from Jane Cassidy’s nephew, there was a heavy snap as a solenoid bolt was activated. The doorknob turned.

But it was Jane Cassidy’s face that appeared in the doorway. Wrapped in a blue silk robe, the hatchet-faced woman carried a tumbler of amber liquor in her hand. She glowered through whiskey fumes at the Ute. “You might have called, Mr. Moon. I am not accustomed to entertaining unexpected guests at this hour of the morning.”

Moon presented his most disarming smile. “I know just how you feel, but—”

“Do not interrupt me. I have something to say.” She took a deep breath, aimed a bony finger at his chest. “Charles, I am highly disappointed with you. You made a recommendation that I offer a huge reward for the return of my stolen property, coupled with a stern threat. I took your advice. Not that I am entirely blameless—I should have known better than to be counseled by a half-witted country rube.”

Moon opened his mouth to speak.

Jane raised a pale, vein-ribbed hand. “You will hear me out, Indian chap. Then you may have your say.” She frowned at the whiskey glass. “Where was I?”

“Ah—if I could get a word in edgewise—”

“Oh yes, now I remember. Since making the one-million-dollar offer, the Denver law firm which represents my interests has been inundated with calls from a veritable horde of pests, lunatics, practical jokers, and outright hoaxters—and I must evaluate every one of these inquiries. I have lost my appetite, my ability to sleep, and my good humor.” Her brow furrowed into a hateful frown. “You have let me down, Charles. I am sad to discover the ugly truth—which is that you are ineffectual.”

“I can understand why you’re upset, but—”

“Hush! I have come to the inescapable conclusion that your reputation for getting results is mere puffery. Therefore, you are no longer in my employ.”

“I’m fired?”

“You are indeed. Sacked. Laid off. Made redundant. And retroactively to the very hour of that unfortunate day when you talked me into offering the thief—or thieves—a fortune for the return of my property, which I shall undoubtedly never lay eyes on again.” She paused to take a sip of her strong drink. “And furthermore, I insist that you return the portion of your fees charged to my account since that date.” She bared her gums, as if preparing to hiss through the gap in her capped teeth. “Otherwise you shall hear from my army of attorneys.”

“But you’ve never paid me a thin dime.”

“Do not bother me with piddling details, young man.” She pointed at some imagined spot in the distance. “Now hit the road—and don’t come back!”

A raw wind moaned the bluest kind of blues, blew rain horizontally across the porch.

“Miss Cassidy, if I could come inside for a minute, I’m sure I could—”

“Don’t plead with me—it is highly unbecoming.” Leaning to look around the tall man, Jane saw the pickup for the first time. She made a horrid face. “Where did you get such a hideously ugly vehicle?”

Moon glanced over his shoulder. “That’s my new—”

“Dear me, I hope none of our neighbors sees that monstrosity parked on my drive. You must remove it immediately.”

Sidewinder, big mouth gaping, tongue lolling over rows of teeth, stared out the truck window at the woman.

“And that horrible, filthy animal!” She started to cackle, sloshing expensive whiskey out of the glass. “I have never seen such an exquisitely homely creature.”

The Ute, wet to the skin, looked down his nose at the drunken woman. “Excuse me—what did you say about my dog?”

“Are you deaf as well as dumb?” Jane Cassidy put a wrinkled pink palm beside her mouth, shrieked, “Your beastly companion is homely. Ugly. Hideous. Repulsive. Vile.” She laughed in his face. “If you wish to hear more, I will instruct Bertie to fetch a thesaurus.”

A bitter smile twisted his lips. “No need to go to all that trouble.”

She backed into the spacious parlor, slammed the door.

The tribal investigator tipped his sodden hat. “Sorry I bothered you.”

Jane Cassidy went to a mullioned window to peer through a slit in the heavy drapes. She watched the big pickup move down the long driveway, disappear. The wealthy woman turned to glare at her nephew, spilling what was left of the whiskey on his shoes. “How dare that cheeky fellow—I did not give him permission to leave.”

“Yes, Auntie.” Bertie barely suppressed a smirk. “The man’s behavior is simply indefensible.”

It was a few minutes after 10:00
PM
Charlie Moon was still awake when the telephone at his bedside made the usual warble. He scooped it up. “Lila Mae?”

“So you have caller ID,” she said. A heartbeat. “No. That couldn’t be it—I have an unpublished number.”

“Don’t matter, lady. I got your number.”

“No, really—how did you know it was me?”

He grinned at the darkness. “None of my other women call me this late.”

“I imagine that’s because they don’t lie awake at night thinking about—”
What am I saying!
“What I mean is—”

“I was thinking about you too, McTeague.”

“Were you—really?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Charlie, do you miss me?”

“Only when you’re not with me.”

For a dazzling moment, she was sixteen again. “When will I see you?”

“I’ll crank up the pickup, be at your place in forty-six minutes.”

“Don’t be silly.”
Not that I’d mind
.

“Okay. I’ll drive the speed limit. Make it an hour.”

The teenager faded away. “Charlie, I called on official business.”

He put his bare feet on the cold floor. “I hope this isn’t bad news.”

“I just had a call from Stan. The Bureau has some new information on the .22-caliber revolver—the one used in the Ralph Briggs shooting.”

The tribal investigator waited.

The FBI agent dropped the hammer: “The weapon has been traced.”

Sure. To a woman
. From that day in Scott Parris’s office, Charlie Moon had recognized the revolver as a LadySmith. He stared into the darkness.
Please, God
. “Anybody I know?”

“Yes. I believe so.”

“Who?”

“Sorry, Charlie—I can’t break the rules. No name until the potential suspect is either cleared or under arrest. I merely wanted to advise you that we are making progress in the Ralph Briggs shooting.”

No response from the Ute.

“Look—I’ll talk to my partner. Maybe Stan will let me stretch the rules.”

The telephone felt cold in his hand. “That won’t be necessary.”

“It would not be a personal favor—merely a professional courtesy. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

A long silence, then: “Is your back still itching, McTeague?”

“What have you got?”

“A riddle.”

“I hate riddles.”

“You’ll like this one. A man owns a very nifty car. Why doesn’t he keep it parked in his garage?”

She thought about it. “The garage is full of junk?”

“Wrong answer.”

“There’s another car in the garage?”

“Bingo, McTeague. You win the teddy bear.”

“I already have a teddy bear.”
I sleep with it
. “But if you have any information relevant to a Bureau investigation, you’d better tell me right now or I’ll—”

“Break my arm?”

“We’re talking compound fracture.”

“Ouch.”

“This fellow with the garage—who is he?”

“Sorry, McTeague. I can’t break the rules.”

“I hate and despise you.”

“I know. Want to meet me somewhere for breakfast?”

Her voice softened. “Sorry. I have a seven-thirty appointment with my partner.” She waited for a response that did not come. “Some of us have to work hard for a living.”

“Better you than me, Lila Mae.”

The tribal investigator had pulled the Columbine Expedition into a gas station across the highway from the Sky Ute Casino. He was filling the tank when the stringy-haired blond woman saw him, came running across two lanes of traffic. As if he might not notice her approach, she waved and shouted, “Charlie—Charlie Moon!”

He tipped his black Stetson, smiled.

Kicks Dogs leaned on the gas pump, caught her breath. “Oh, I am
so
glad to see you.”

He thought he knew, but asked, “What’s the problem?”

Jacob Gourd Rattle’s wife shook her head. “Oh God—my whole
life
is a problem. You would never guess who’s been harassing me.”

Moon watched a gray Ford sedan pass by. “FBI?”

Her eyes went round and large. “How did you know?”

“Years of experience.”

Kicks Dogs pointed at his silver belt buckle. “They spent half the day at my house, practically accusing me of being mixed up in some kind of break-in. And shooting some man up in Granite Creek.”

“Ralph Briggs.”

She nodded. “That’s the one.”

“The FBI don’t make a habit of questioning people for no reason at all.”

The woman chewed on her lip. “The .22 pistol that was used to shoot that Mr. Briggs—it turns out it belonged to me.” She looked away. “Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Well, it’s like this.” Her pale blue eyes implored him to believe. “I had the pistol when I met Jake. But he liked it a lot, and used to carry it around in his coat pocket. Sometimes he would keep it in the van.”

“That night Jacob left you in the canyon—did he have the .22 with him then?”

“I guess so.” She shrugged. “I ain’t seen it in months. And that’s the honest truth.”

“I can see how this is a problem.” He tried not to sound too hard. “But why are you telling me?”

Her answer was frank, and totally disarming. “Because you are so nice and kind.”

He did not know what to say.

“You are a man who really
cares
about people—I can always tell.” Kicks rubbed a frayed coat sleeve across her nose. “And I think maybe you could help me.”

I know I shouldn’t ask
. “How could I help you?”

“I believe the FBI is going to arrest me.” Fear pulled at the pallid face. “Maybe you could talk to them, tell them I didn’t have nothing to do with shooting that Briggs fella.”

“I hate to admit this, but I don’t have the least influence with the feds.”

Kicks made a face, glared at the gas pump as if she might punch it right in the snout. “What I need is a good lawyer.”

“That would be the right place to start.”

She turned her head to look off in the distance. “If I had some money, I’d move miles and miles away from here.”

“Where to?”

“Back home.” The confused woman pointed west. “North Carolina.” She looked as if she were about to cry. “But I don’t have a job, or hardly any savings left. I got a fourth-grade education. Where is a person like me going to get more than a few dollars?”

THE GRAY
Ford sedan did a U-turn, pulled into the broad parking lot at the Sky Ute Casino. The driver used a palm-size Japanese camera, adjusted the zoom lens, shot six digital images of the tribal investigator and the blond woman—who appeared to be listening very attentively to what the Ute had to say. From time to time, the suspect nodded. Finally, Kicks Dogs Gourd Rattle hugged the tall man, hurried away as if she was late for an important appointment. So which one do I follow?

MOON PULLED
away from the gas station. As he had expected, the gray Ford was not far behind. He parked at the curb in front of Wiseman’s Hardware. The FBI sedan pulled up beside him, the passenger-side window was lowered. He nodded at the occupant.

Special Agent McTeague gave him an unreadable look. “Want to go for a ride?”

“One way?”

“Depends on how you behave.”

“Your wheels or mine?”

“Get in,” she said.

He did. “Don’t get the wrong idea, McTeague. I’m not usually such an easy pickup.”

She was not amused. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

“I cannot pass a hardware store. And once I’m inside, I’m liable to browse around for hours purchasing copper pipes and roofing paint and tin snips—”

“Can it.”

“Oh—do you refer to my accidental clandestine meeting with Mrs. Gourd Rattle?”

“Talk to me.”

“I thought we were going for a ride.”

“That was what’s commonly known as a figure of speech. Not to be taken literally.”

“I literally wanted to go for a ride.” Moon shook his head. “I am very disappointed.”

“Look, cowboy—I haven’t got all day.”

“Neither have I. So start driving, Special Agent McTeague.”

She gave him a suspicious glance. “Where to?”

“I’ll tell you on one condition.”

“Name it.”

“This is between you and me.”

She arched a pretty eyebrow. “You wish to act as an unnamed informant?”

“‘Confidential source’ sounds a lot better.”

“You expect me to keep my partner in the dark?”

“Like a baby mushroom.”

She shrugged. “I suppose it would be all right.”

“You’ll never regret it, McTeague.”

“I doubt that. But tell me where we’re going.”

He told her.

AN HOUR
later, she glanced at her passenger. “This pathetic excuse for a road is perfectly hideous and we’re a dozen miles from no place—what are we doing here?”

“Don’t get any ideas.” He gave her a bashful grin.

She blushed. “Shut up and talk.”

“You sound a lot like my aunt Daisy.”

“I would like to meet the lady.”

But would she like to meet you. That is the question
.

“How much farther—”

“About thirty yards, on your left.”

She braked the Ford to a crawl, squinted at the rusty mailbox. “Who is E. Ganado?”

Moon shifted his long frame in the small car. “An accident-prone Navajo who rents this splendid estate from our highly esteemed tribal chairman.”

“Why should I pretend to be interested?”

“Because Eddie Ganado was hired by the attorney who represents Felix Navarone.”

“That weirdo Apache who got treed near Capote Lake?” She turned the car into the weed-choked lane.

“That’s the guy.”

McTeague parked by the yellow Pontiac. Ganado’s classic automobile was coated with rain-spotted dust and an assortment of sticky seeds and windblown leaves. She set the parking brake. “Okay, Confidential Source. What is this all about?”

“This is about the answer to the riddle.”

She arched a pretty eyebrow. “The one about the man who has a snazzy car that he doesn’t park in his garage?”

“Right.”

She looked around the property. “Okay. The Pontiac is sitting out in the weather. Whose car is in the garage?”

“I’d like to tell you, ma’am—but my momma didn’t raise me up to be an obnoxious show-off.”

“Go ahead,” she urged. “Just this once.”

“All right.” He assumed a pensive look. “But if I’m wrong, I will be extremely embarrassed.”

For the first time that day, the pretty woman smiled. “Then for me, this is a win-win proposition.”

“What we will find in the garage is the Dodge van that belongs to the missing Mr. Gourd Rattle.”

Without another word, the federal agent got out of the car.

He followed her.

“The garage door is padlocked.” She frowned at the tribal investigator. “And I do not have a search warrant.”

“Check the other side,” Moon suggested. “See if there’s another entrance.”

McTeague walked around the garage, found no second door. When she returned, the Ute had the lock and hasp in his hand.

“Dang thing was loose.” Moon grinned. “Poor installation, I guess. If I had not caught it, it would’ve fell on the ground.”

The FBI agent rolled her big, beautiful eyes. “You are impossible.”

“You are hard to please. But before we leave, I guess you’ll want to check inside the garage.” He took hold of the handle in the center of the garage door, lifted it shoulder-high.

McTeague stared at the rear end of the Dodge van. “Charlie—please tell me that you did not find the van somewhere, drive it here yourself.”

“You are an unusually suspicious woman—even for a federal cop.”

She sniffed. “Do you smell what I smell?”

He nodded. “I think you’d better open the van door.”

She shot him a look. “Why me?”

“You’re in charge, McTeague. I’m just an innocent bystander.”

With a handkerchief in her hand, the FBI agent turned the chrome-plated handle, opened the van’s rear door. “Oh God.”

A swarm of blackflies ascended from the corpse, buzzed around, settled down again.

The Ute, who had been taught to abhor dead bodies, did not approach.

She fought off a threat of nausea. “Is this…was this Mr. Gourd Rattle?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Mr. Ganado?”

The Ute tried not to breathe. “That’d be my guess.”

“He appears to have been shot.” Special Agent McTeague pressed the handkerchief against her nose, turned to the Ute, spoke through the linen square. “Charlie—do you have any idea who did this?”

“Ideas are a dime a dozen.” Moon looked up at the sky. “But if I come up with anything worth mentioning, you’ll be the first to know.”

LILA MAE
McTeague was dreaming about Frank Sinatra. Ol’ Blue Eyes gave her a wink. Opened his mouth to sing. What came out was
—brrrriiiiing
!

The sleeper jumped, flailed about wildly in the darkness of her bedroom, managed to find the telephone. “Oh…uh…McTeague here.” She was not entirely certain where
here
was.

“Good morning.”

“Ch-Charlie?”

The deep voice boomed in her ear: “You sound half asleep—you still in bed?”

She turned over, squinted at the red numbers on the digital clock, groaned. “Do you know how early it is?”

“It is not early, Special Agent McTeague. It is almost five in the
AM
. Time to hit the floor, get your duds on, strap on that ugly 9-millimeter automatic pistol, go and do something useful for the citizens of the good old US of A.”

“Good idea.” She yawned. “I’ll hunt you down and kill you.”

“That can wait. Was the corpse in the van Eddie Ganado?”

“It was.” She frowned at the invisible man. “And you knew exactly what we’d find before you took me out there, so don’t say you didn’t.” McTeague pulled the quilt up to her chin. “I bet you’d already found the van and his corpse. And I bet you put that padlock on the garage door.”

“You’d lose both bets.”

“Then how did you know—”

“I’d dropped by Ganado’s place earlier. Soon as I parked my truck, I smelled his body.”

“Without opening the garage door?”

“We rural folk tend to have better noses than city people. Probably because the air out here’s so clean.”

She yawned into the telephone.

“Tell me, McTeague—do you have any hot suspects in the Ganado homicide?”

“Do you?”

“I asked you first.”

“No, I do not. But Stan and I are interviewing people who were acquainted with Mr. Ganado.”

“Like the lawyer he worked for?”