Shadow Man (12 page)

The plump, middle-aged woman pried off the plastic lid—realized she had opened a serious can of worms. Dottie Neffick made a face at the writhing mass of night crawlers.
That is so icky!
She turned to the man beside her. “Pat, I just can’t do this.”

Patrick scowled at his wife, snatched up the coffee can, grabbed at her fishing line, deftly impaled a medium-size worm onto the barbed hook. “There,” he grumbled. “Now see if you can cast it out by that big boulder.” He added in a weary tone: “And try not to get it snagged on that log again.”

Her face flushed with enthusiasm, Dottie made a surprisingly elegant overhead cast. Snagged it on the log. “Oh, dear.” She giggled. “If I’d
tried
to do that, I bet I couldn’t have—not in a month of Sundays.”

Fresh out of snorts and scowls, Patrick stoically cut the line with his pocket knife, attached another hook and sinker, baited the line with a second worm.

His wife smiled. “Thank you, dear.”

This time, he made the cast.
That should be a good spot
. For a moment, the plastic bobber lay on its side, then jerked upright as the lead sinker settled out at four feet. He returned the brand-new rod and spinning reel to the woman. “Now sit still—and watch the cork.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What cork?”

“The float. When I was a boy, we used bottle corks. So I still call ’em corks.”
If that’s okay with you.

“Oh—d’you mean that little plastic ball-thingy?”

The experienced fisherman groaned.
I should’ve left her at home.

Dottie was not perturbed by his silence. She watched the “cork.” After a few seconds she tightened her grip on the rod. “Oh, Pat, look—it’s moving! Should I pull it in?”

“That’s just the current. Don’t you do nothin’ unless the cork goes under. Then you give it a good jerk. That’s to set the hook.”
These women, you can’t learn ’em nothin’ ’bout fishing, so I don’t know why I even try.

“This is
so
exciting.” She shuddered with the delectable joy of the experience. “I don’t know why I never did this before. From now on, every time you go fishing, I’m coming along.”

“Wonderful,” he muttered. A green fly buzzed by, followed by and by by a yellow butterfly. In the branches overhead, a jay began to fuss and cuss about something or other.
Yes sirree, this sure is the way to live.
A blissful minute passed. Then another. Patrick had almost forgotten that Dottie was with him. Then—

“Pat!” She reached over to jerk at his sleeve.

“What?”

“I think I have a bite.”

He looked for the red-and-white float. It wasn’t there. Suddenly her line went taut.
It’s probably just a piece of driftwood.
“Might as well give it a yank.”

Dottie gave it a yank. “Oh my goodness—it’s a big one!”

He noted the sound of alarm in her voice, sensed an opportunity. “Probably a big water moccasin.”

She paled. “Really—are there poisonous snakes in these waters?”

“Sure.” He chuckled. “Why do you think they call it Moccasin Lake?”

“Oh, Pat—you’re teasing me.”

In a generous mood, he hoped Dottie had snagged herself a big channel catfish. She’d probably fall in with it.
Now that’d be something to tell the boys about.

While Patrick watched, the ecstatic fisherwoman reeled in her catch. “Gracious—it feels like it weighs a ton!”

It ain’t puttin’ up any fight, but it does look like it could be a sure-enough lunker.
“You want some help?”

“No, I do not.”
You men think a woman can’t do anything but wash your dirty clothes and cook three meals a day and change diapers.
“I can do this by myself, thank you.”

He scratched a match across his Big Mike overall bib, touched a sulfurous flame to his pipe.
She’ll never get ’im in. I bet she breaks the line. Then she’ll take to hollerin’ and squallin’ to beat the band and she’ll blame
me
for losing her great big fish. She’ll say I should’ve helped her—even after she told me not to.
This day was turning out pretty good after all.

When her catch of the day was finally on the edge of the bank, Patrick and Dottie stared blankly. Comprehension finally kicked in, followed by horror.

The fisherman felt his breakfast gurgling up into his throat.

His wife flung her rod and reel away, stumbled backward. The woman’s moan turned into a long, keening wail.

In ten tick-tocks, it would be 3:58
P.M
. the FBI special agent
SET
the 8X binoculars aside, removed the single-purpose cell telephone from her purse, punched the programmed button.

The assistant SAC picked up on the second ring. “Talk to me, McTeague.”

“The official ID of the body part is scheduled for four o’-clock. I’m in the unmarked van, parked a block from the medical examiner’s home. Chief of Police Parris and Tribal Investigator Moon arrived about twelve minutes ago. About five minutes after that, Mrs. Pansy Blinkoe and Mr. Spencer Trottman arrived in Mr. Trottman’s vehicle—” She nodded. “Yes sir. Mr. Trottman is the family attorney. Mrs. Blinkoe is probably leaning on him for moral support as well as legal advice. I’m planning a fortuitous meeting with Chief Parris at about six
P.M
. Shall I call you back as soon as I determine the results of the ID?” She heard a clipped affirmative response, a click in her ear. McTeague dropped the cell phone back into her purse.
This is really dumb—I shouldn’t be spying on my colleagues. I should be in there with Charlie Moon and Scott Parris, finding out firsthand what’s going on. But this silly cloak-and-dagger business is the assistant SAC’s pet idea, so there’s no point in suggesting the direct approach.
She thought it over.
Things need to work out so the stuffed shirt
orders
me to terminate the surveillance.
McTeague thought she knew how to make this happen.

The Ordeal

Leading the way, the aged medical examiner switched on the lights over a narrow stairwell, descended into the cool, faintly chemical atmosphere of the mortuary. The occasional cadaver that came his way was stored in the basement of the pathologist’s three-story Victorian home. Dependent almost entirely on grinding automobile crashes, drug overdoses among the student body at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University, and the occasional fistfight gone too far at Paddy’s Bar, business was not brisk. Despite the lack of material, Dr. Simpson loved his work.

Pansy Blinkoe followed Chief of Police Scott Parris down the stairs. She was trailed by family attorney Spencer Trottman. Charlie Moon was the last to descend into the cellar. Since his early childhood, the Ute had been taught to fear human remains—especially of those who had recently died by violence. On occasion, a dead body would fill the tribal investigator with an inexpressible sense of dread. At other times he was able to approach a corpse with all of the objectivity required by his profession. This was not one of those times. Moon had seen the man only days ago, when the spirit was still firmly connected to the flesh.

The medical examiner flicked another light switch, led the solemn procession into a boxlike room with a gray concrete floor, gray cinder-block walls, a gray acoustic-paneled ceiling. Recessed into one wall were six stainless-steel drawers.

After a quick, chilling glance, the woman looked away.

Dr. Simpson had conducted this difficult ritual many times, and understood the necessity of starting out slowly, easing them into the hard part. With a practiced casualness, he produced a small plastic bag. “Mrs. Blinkoe, does this look at all familiar?”

Pansy and the family attorney nodded in unison; it was the woman who spoke: “That’s Manny’s wristwatch.” She frowned. “Where’d you find it?”

The M.E. stuffed the bag back into his pocket. “I removed it from the remains.”

“Oh.” Her face went chalky white.

Now for the hard part.
Simpson turned a brass key in bin 2.

Pansy drew back, grabbed Moon’s arm. “Do I have to do this?”

The Ute did not know what to say.

The attorney did. “No, Mrs. Blinkoe—you do not.” Trottman glared at the M.E., as if expecting an argument.

“That’s right,” Dr. Simpson said. “It’s entirely voluntary. We do prefer to have the remains positively identified by the next of kin, but if you would rather not perform this service, we can ask someone else.” The pathologist’s eyes twinkled as he regarded the feisty lawyer. “Perhaps Mr. Trottman would stand in for you.”

The attorney bristled. “I certainly will.” He gave the woman a tender look. “Mrs. Blinkoe?”

Pretty Pansy brushed away a wisp of golden hair. “No, I can do it.” She braced herself. “Go ahead.”

The medical examiner nodded, opened the insulated door, pulled out a stainless tray that was seven and a half feet long.

The woman, the lawyer—even the hardened pair of lawmen—caught their breath.

It was Pansy Blinkoe who spoke. “I don’t understand—where is he? I mean…”

Dr. Simpson regarded the roll of cotton cloth, turned his gaze on Scott Parris. “Didn’t you tell her?”

The chief of police reddened. “Uh—no. I guess I forgot. I mean, I thought you had already…” He simply ran out of words.

The M.E. shook his head, turned to the woman. “Mrs. Blinkoe, I’m terribly sorry about this. What happened was, the person who—uh—discovered this specimen in Moccasin Lake did not recover the
entire
remains.”

A look of cold horror was creeping over the woman’s features. Pansy Blinkoe seemed to have aged a decade. “What do you mean?”

Simpson patted the cloth-wrapped parcel as if it were his favorite puppy. “What we have here is one of the limbs.”

Her hand found her mouth. “Limbs?”

The M.E. nodded. “Left arm.”

She stared at the unruffled pathologist. “But…why…”

Scott Parris turned his hat in his hands. “Ma’am, we have physical evidence indicating there was a terrific explosion on your husband’s houseboat. Enough to do considerable damage to the—ah—remains.”

“Oh, God.” Her shoulders began to shake. She leaned heavily on Charlie Moon.

The Ute had felt her pain surging through him.

Trottman glared at Moon, patted the woman on the arm. “Mrs. Blinkoe—are you all right?”

Taking a deep breath, she nodded. “Let me see the…the…” She simply could not say it.

Simpson unwrapped the
thing.

She stared at the torn shoulder muscles, the blackened biceps, the forearm, the upturned hand. “It doesn’t look…real.”

The M.E. nodded at what he considered a lovely specimen. “That’s a normal reaction, Mrs. Blinkoe. A limb apart from a body strikes us as rather an odd thing to see. But it’s real enough. What we need to determine is whether this belonged to someone you know.” He turned his grandfatherly gaze on the young woman. “Can you identify this left arm?”

Her pretty head nodded. “That’s his ring.”

Simpson’s round little baby face turned slightly pink. “For the record, Mrs. Blinkoe—
whose
ring?”

Pansy pointed at the horrid assembly of flesh and bone and skin. “Manny’s—my husband’s.”

Trottman stared at the gruesome exhibit. “Yes. Manfred always wore his ruby ring.”

The now-official widow closed her eyes, took a very deep breath. Exhaled. “Manny bought it years before we met. Inside the rim, he had the jeweler put all three of his initials. M.W.B.” She added needlessly: “That was in case if he ever lost it, he could prove it was his.”

“That’s all we need to hear.” Like a jolly butcher wrapping up a plump pork roast, the medical examiner rolled up the severed arm in the cotton cloth. “You fellows take the lady back upstairs. There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.” As a thoughtless afterthought, the lonely old man added: “And there’s a big Virginia ham in the fridge. Honey-cured. If you want to hang around for a while, we can make some sandwiches.” It did not occur to the pathologist that his guests might not have an appetite.

Feeling squeaky clean and considerably refreshed, Pansy Blinkoe reached for the gold-plated shower valve, turned off the skin-tingling spray of hot water. She stood very still, eyes closed, drip-dripping…whispering the words of a brand-new mantra.

Manny’s gone.

Manny’s not coming back.

Manny’s dead!

Sucking in a gulp of the humid atmosphere, she continued.

I’m here.

I’m going places.

I’m alive!

She opened her eyes, focused on the shower wall, watched a plump bead of water slip down the surface of a cobalt-blue Mexican tile.

Outside the Blinkoe home, there was a
presence
in the darkness. It moved about the grounds with the easy familiarity of one who
belonged.

Pansy Blinkoe stepped out of the shower, toweled herself almost-dry, slipped into a black Japanese silk bathrobe that was ornamented with impossibly crimson lotus blossoms, padded down the carpeted hallway, opened the door to her elegant bedroom, flicked on the overhead light. She seated herself at a pink marble vanity, began to brush lovely tresses that tumbled over her shoulders in a molten, golden waterfall. She gazed at the reflected woman, considered her options.
I’m still young. I could sell this big house, move to L.A. or Miami. Buy a smaller place, maybe on the beach. I could make some new friends.
Men
friends.
She smiled at the pretty face in the looking glass. It smiled back with the brilliantly white dentures Manfred had provided.
At least he did that for me.
She was about to give the hair another vigorous brush when her body went cold enough to freeze and shatter. Here is what was the matter:

In the mirror, just over her shoulder, she could see her bedroom window. A shadowy figure had materialized there. The familiar face was not smiling.

A minor irritation

Tucked snugly into his bed, Spencer Trottman was immersed in the deepest of sleeps, enjoying the most pleasant of dreams. He walked along a grassy path, beside a crystalline stream. The bank was carpeted with iridescent green moss and tiny blue flowers. He was suddenly confronted by a small, freckle-faced boy. The child removed a toy telephone from his pocket. It rang once. Twice. The youngster stuck the thing to his ear, nodded, offered the instrument to the dreamer. “Here, mister—it’s for you.”

For the third time, the telephone on the bedside table rang. Almost awake now, Trottman rolled over, grabbed the instrument, almost dropped it, made an admirable recovery, put it on the pillow beside his head. “Wha—what?”

A woman’s voice screeched in his ear. “Spencer—is that you?”

It’s Pansy.
He squinted at the alarm clock dial. Ten minutes past one. “What is it?”

Another shriek in his ear. “He’s here!”

“Who’s here—what are you talking about?”

Her voice dropped to a throaty whisper. “Manny’s here—I
saw
him.”

The attorney pushed himself up on an elbow. “That’s not possible.”

“I don’t care whether it’s possible or not,” she said through clenched teeth. “I saw his face. Plain as day.”

Trottman stared at the black window. “When did you see him?”

“Just a minute or so ago.”

The man who had been so rudely awakened put his bare feet on the cold oak floor, felt a shudder in his legs. “You had a bad dream, that’s all. After what you’ve been through lately, it’s hardly surprising that—”

“It wasn’t no dream—I’d just got out of the shower. I saw Manny while I was wide awake and brushing my hair.”

She’s either drunk or hallucinating. Or both.
“Pansy, I have to ask you this. Have you been drinking?”

“No, you silly bastard—I have not been drinking.” A pause. “Well, I did have a little glass of wine at dinner.”
Maybe two. Or three.

A glass of wine probably
was
your dinner.
He swallowed a yawn. “You’ve had a rough day, identifying Manfred’s remains and all. Hey, that was enough to give
me
the shivers.”

“Look, I am telling you I
saw
him.”

There is no point in arguing with her.
“You might’ve seen Manfred’s ghost. From what I’ve heard, people who’ve lost a loved one occasionally have experiences like that.”

“He was not a ‘loved one’ and you know it.”

He blinked in the darkness. “What do you want from me?”

She made a half-sob. “Well, for starters you could show a little sympathy.”

The attorney smiled. “I’m sorry, Pansy. I’m actually very fond of you.”
More than you’ll ever know.
“It’s just that your call woke me up and I’m still sort of groggy—”

“Manny’s come back to torment me.”

He rubbed at his eyes. “Maybe you should take a sleeping pill.”

“No, no,
no
!” Her transmitted voice rose and fell as she shook her head past the telephone. “I’m afraid—I need to talk to somebody about this.”

“Why don’t you talk to your brother?” Clayton Crowe lived over the Blinkoe garage. Surely he wouldn’t mind holding his little sister’s hand till she calmed down.

“I haven’t seen Clayton for days—he’s off on one of his trips, probably whoring around in Denver.” She shouted in his ear: “Spencer, I will
not
sleep in this house tonight.”
Maybe not ever again.

Trottman got to his feet. “Then where will you sleep?”

There was a hesitation. “I thought you might have some idea.”

Does that mean what it sounds like? Probably not.
“Tell you what, Pansy—I’ll get you a nice room over at the Stockman’s Hotel.”

“Don’t bother. I’m coming to your place. Right now.”

Why not?
“Okay. Come on over. I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

“Fine. We can sit up all night and talk.” She took a deep breath. “Seeing Manny’s face has really put the scare in me. There’s some stuff we need to go over.”

“What kind of things?”

“I’m thinking of moving away. To California. Or Florida.” Now it was a little-girl’s voice. “And there’s something else I need to tell you. It’s about Clayton.”

Spencer Trottman heard a metallic click, stared at the mute telephone. He sat down on the bed. Under the best of circumstances, Pansy was unpredictable. He doubted that she would actually show up.
Once she gets in her pickup, she’ll probably just keep on driving.
He wondered whether he would ever see the pretty young woman again.