The Old Gray Wolf (33 page)

Jackson turned his frigid gaze on the driver. “When?”

“When the time is right,” Moon said.
And when I'm up to it.
“Professor Mayfair was murdered by the same person who set the Bronco on fire, and I don't want Scott to know what's happened until we've apprehended the suspect who drove away in the pickup.”

“Yeah.” Moon's passenger smiled thinly. “Scott'd probably freak out and shoot the bad guy dead on sight.”
Which would round out the evening nicely—and serve the bastard right.

“I expect he might.” The driver peered grimly ahead. “Worse still, Scott might shoot the
wrong
citizen.” It occurred to Moon that Jackson was not privy to recent events.
He deserves to know what we're going up against.
The taciturn Ute summed up the situation tersely: “The suspect is a seriously bad character the FBI calls the ‘Cowboy Assassin.' A professional shooter.”

A cold-blooded pro himself, Jackson was unimpressed. “You figure this hired gun is holed up in the Holiday Inn?”

“No, I don't.”
Not inside.
Moon jutted his chin. “There's Officers Knox and Slocum, setting up one of the roadblocks.”

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

AT THE HOLIDAY INN

As they approached the hotel's iconic roadside sign, Charlie Moon asked his passenger to please return the emergency blinker to the glove compartment.

This direction having been anticipated by Officer Jackson, the process was initiated before the words were out of the driver's mouth.

Right on Moon's tail as he slowed the Expedition, Scott Parris also eased off on the gas, allowing the elastic distance between them to stretch to two car lengths.

All three lawmen sensed some kind of showdown in the offing, and each of them reacted in his characteristic manner.

His throat seared by a sudden surge of heartburn, Chief of Police Parris gritted his teeth.
I hope I've got some Tums in my pockets.
(Not a problem; he did.)

The Ute deputy's lips whispered a four-word prayer. Charlie Moon was barely conscious of his automatic supplication. (Didn't matter. His words were heard.)

Of its own accord, Trooper Jackson's trusty right hand found his holstered sidearm and rested there with serene expectation, in eager anticipation of that moment when his brain would send a
shoot-on-sight
command. (When the time came, it would.)

Jackson: “I assume that we're looking for the suspect's vehicle.”

“Mm-hm.” Charlie Moon glanced left and right. “The pickup might be next door at the Quiznos—or even across the street in the strip mall.”
But I don't think so.
Indeed, the Indian cowboy would have bet his fine pair of Tony Lama boots that the truck was behind the Holiday Inn, where Louella Smithson had parked her old Bronco when she checked in yesterday evening. Shifting down to second gear, he eased the Columbine flagship into the hotel parking lot slowly, like a weary, bleary-eyed tourist hoping to find a convenient parking spot and then a comfortable bed.

Officer Jackson's cold blue gaze was scanning dozens of parked vehicles.
With all of these convention cowpokes in town, most of the vehicles in the Holiday Inn are pickups.
“So how'll we know when we spot the right truck?”

“It showed up just a few minutes ago, so the engine's still warm.” Moon eased his pointy boot toe off the accelerator pedal and shifted to Low. “The pickup we're looking won't have any frost on the hood.”

“Oh … right.”
Thank you, Sherlock Ute.

The latter-day consulting detective switched off the Expedition's defroster fan. “And the windshield will be clear of frost.”

Thanks again.
By force of habit, Jackson unholstered and checked his sidearm. As he knew it would be, the Glock's 9-mm magazine was fully loaded. With a derisive smirk, he injected a copper-jacketed round into the barrel. “So here we go, Charlie—me'n a full-blooded Ute Indian out gunning for an outlaw cowboy.”
I'd sure hate to be in that unlucky hombre's boots.

The driver nodded.
But this Cowboy ain't your average cow pie kicker.

The state cop watched several clusters of well-booted hombres who were topped off with broad-brimmed hats, all meandering this way and that in the parking lot. A few were cold sober; but the rest had been sampling the potent liquid refreshment served up at local dispensaries. “This'll be like looking for a drunk in the Burro Alley Saloon on a Saturday night.”

Ignoring the male pedestrians, the driver was looking for the suspect vehicle. “We're not likely to see the cowboy who owns the pickup strutting around with these other stockmen.”

“You figure he's already holed up someplace?”

Charlie Moon switched off the noisy defroster. “I figure he'll be in his pickup.”

“Doing what?” The trooper frowned. “Waiting for us to show up?”

The Ute slowed his Expedition to a crawl. “In a manner of speaking.”

I sure wish Charlie would just say straight out what's on his mind.
“So the shooter figures we've got him cornered—and intends to run up the white flag?”

“No. For his kind, surrender is not an option.”

The state trooper's hard face split into a grin. “You believe this outlaw intends to stand and shoot it out with the police?”

Moon shook his head.

Officer Jackson was an uncomplicated man who liked things simple and straightforward.
This whole business is beginning to sound awfully squirrelly.
“Then what
do
you think?”

“I think we've found the pickup.” Charlie Moon braked his SUV to a dead stop and switched off the headlights.

Close behind them, Scott Parris did the same.

There was no need for the Ute to point at what he'd spotted. Officer Jackson had also noticed the shiny new GMC pickup with
no frost on the hood
—and a freshly defrosted windshield.

Scott Parris, Charlie Moon, and Officer Jackson opened the car doors at their respective elbows almost simultaneously and slipped out like ghostly man-shadows. The trio congregated at the chief of police's black-and-white. Ready to assume charge of whatever action Charlie Moon had in mind, Parris jutted his square chin at the suspect vehicle. “Is that it?”

“I believe it is,” his Indian deputy said.

Jackson was staring doubtfully at the truck.
Moon is dead wrong on at least one particular.
And he could not resist telling him so. “There's nobody in the truck, Charlie.”

“Oh, he's there all right—just out of sight.” Having temporarily lost interest in the pickup, Moon was now scanning the parking lot.

Parris leaned forward to squint at the GMC pickup. “Well if he's in there, I sure don't see him.”

“Neither do I,” the Ute said.

Figuring he'd caught on, Parris nodded knowingly. “Hunkered down, huh?”

Charlie Moon responded with a nod.

His companions drew similar conclusions:

Parris:
Ol' Charlie must've got a quick look at Cowboy right before he popped out of sight.

Jackson:
That sharp-eyed Indian spotted the shooter before he ducked.
“He's keeping his head down and waiting for some dumb cop to peep through the window so he can blow his fool head off.” Jackson's hand took a tighter grip on the butt of his holstered automatic pistol. “But we've got him cornered.”

“You got that right,” Parris said. “This woman-strangling, Bronco-burning yahoo ain't going
nowhere
.” Despite this earnest bluster, he knew it wouldn't be a cakewalk. In a dicey situation like this, the sensible course of action was to quietly evacuate the hotel while stealthily saturating the parking lot with GCPD uniforms and state police. That process would take maybe twenty minutes, and …
Before we even got started we could hem that pickup in with my black-and-white and Charlie's SUV.
As soon as there was no way out, they could let the assassin know the game was up …
and wait him out.
For how long? Long as it takes.
Till Houston is snowed in and Tucson freezes over.

That would be the
sensible
thing to do. But …

 

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

BUT WHAT?

But the edgy chief of police was not in a mood to go by the book, or to wait another minute. Why? (Granite Creek's senior police official is about to tell us.)
Once the word gets out, the FBI won't wait till morning to show up and assume jurisdiction—those feds'll be here in nothin' flat and take charge of things and make the arrest that we set up and then they'll hold a big press conference in Denver and tell the whole wide world how they nabbed a dangerous assassin in a little backwater Colorado mountain town where the local cops couldn't find their butts with both hands.
Was he going to let that happen? No way. What he had in mind was to deal with the matter
right now
.

Toward that happy goal, Scott Parris addressed the state trooper. “Here's how I see it, Jackson: the two of us circle around by the creek bank and approach the pickup from the rear. I'll slip up to the driver's-side door, you take the passenger side—but stay out of the line of fire. To get the bad guy's attention, you tap on the cab with your sidearm and yell, ‘Police—open up!' When you do, I'll jerk the driver's-side door open—and shoot the outlaw five times if he so much as blinks an eye.” Parris swallowed a resurgent burst of stomach acid. “But just on the off chance that I take a hit, you do whatever comes naturally.”

Jackson's blue eyes sparkled. “Works for me, Chief.”

Scott Parris gave his enigmatic deputy his no-nonsense, now-hear-this look. “Since you're not packing, Charlie—you stay put. Me and Jackson will take care of this badass dude in three minutes flat.”

“Okay,” Moon murmured. “But there'll be no need to shoot him.”

The chief of police burned his best friend with a dual-laser glare. “You figure he'll fold?”

“When the chips are down, this Cowboy never bluffs or folds—but he won't pose a threat.” Before stepping out on the proverbial limb, Moon inhaled deeply of the chill night air. “He's already been shot.”

Recalling the popping sound the witness had reported, Parris said, “You telling me that Miss Whysper has already plugged this guy?”

“I'd be willing to bet a two-dollar bill on it,” Moon said.

It would be like taking free money, but Parris was in no mood for wagering. “So you figure all the fight's gone out of him?”

“By now, he's probably dead,” the deputy said.

“Let me see if I can get my mind wrapped around this.” Parris refocused his gaze on the pickup. “The suspect uses his truck to block the Bronco in Patsy's driveway. Miss Whysper comes outside and tells him to park somewhere else. He stays put. Things get nasty. She pulls a pistol from her purse and shoots the guy because he wouldn't move his pickup. Is that what you're telling me?”

Moon nodded. “More or less.”
Mostly less.

“Okay. Let's say she shoots the pickup driver with the kind of small-caliber weapon a lady might carry in her purse.” Parris mimicked a corny line from an old Tom Mix flick: “‘Just a flesh wound, ma'am.'”

Jackson smirked.

“This little dose of lead poisoning don't bring Cowboy down,” Parris continued. “Just makes him madder'n hell. So he loops a hank of wire around his assailant's neck and strangles her to death. Noticing that Patsy's sister has witnessed this capital crime, he goes into the house to knock her on the head. Does this slow him down? Not a bit. This wounded outlaw comes back outside, dumps Miss Whysper's body into the Bronco, and sets it afire. Finally satisfied with his night's work, he drives his GMC pickup over here to the Holiday Inn,” Parris pointed his chin at the vehicle, “where he's already checked in and intends to treat himself to a fine beefsteak supper and then a good night's sleep. But the wages of sin catch up with him. When the rascal parks out back of the hotel—he croaks from the minor gunshot wound. Is that what you expect me to believe?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it does sound unlikely.” The deputy's attention was focused on a particular sedan in the parking lot.

Moon's flippant response annoyed his friend. “Anything you want to add to your hunch, Charlie?”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don't know—maybe a physical description of the cowboy that Miss Whysper shot.”

“There's not that much I can tell you.” Six heartbeats. “Except that he'll be an elderly fellow.”

“Is that all?”

“I reckon so.” Another thoughtful pause. “Well … except for a minor detail.”

“So spit it out.”

“He's most likely from the Lone Star State.”

“And how do you figure that?”

“Oh, just a gut feeling.” Moon said. “That, and his truck has Texas plates.”

Parris and Jackson squinted to make out the plate on the GMC's front bumper. Both of the lawmen envied the Indian's astonishing night-vision.

Guessing their thoughts, Moon confessed, “I spotted the out-of-state plate right before I switched off my headlights.”

Parris eyed the gray GMC. “So Cowboy's from the land of the Houston Oilers and Dallas Cowboys?”

Moon nodded his black Stetson. “
This
old Cowboy is.”

Officer Jackson cleared this throat.

Parris turned his glare on the state trooper. “What?”

“You two chatterboxes can talk all night if you want to.” The trooper gestured dismissively with his 9-mm Glock. “But I figure it's time to go look in the horse's mouth.”