The Old Gray Wolf (35 page)

Lacking this expert knowledge that can be gained only by intensive study of carefully contrived fiction, neither Charlie Moon nor Scott Parris nor Officer Jackson, was concerned about a sudden and deadly attack from the passenger in the totaled vehicle. But do not look askance at these public servants; their misplaced confidence was hardly surprising. Counting the pair of befuddled GCPD officers in the unwelcome squad car, there were five determined cops pitted against one cold-blooded felon who wasn't likely to have any fight left. The lawmen's bias was that in real-life situations, those who experience head-on encounters with concrete bases of lampposts are normally dazed and discombobulated for at least a few minutes, and cannot correctly answer such questions as “What year is it?”; “Who is the current president of the United States?”; or “Where do you want your body sent, hairball?” And even if this particular accident victim's brain was functioning like a fine Swiss clockwork, the odds against a comeback were daunting.

In all fairness to the constables, it shall be stated for the record that the driver
was
somewhat addled by the collision. Which fact obliges us—despite the assassin's admitted moral shortcomings—to give credit where credit is due. As soon as the driver's bruised and swollen eyes opened and her vision began to clear, she saw the fuzzy images of three large men approaching her wrecked rental car—and understood the utter hopelessness of the situation. Did she wilt like a picked-last-week black-eyed Susan in a vase of tepid tap water, and wait to be cuffed and led away like a common criminal?

You know that she did not.

Acting more on stubbornness than instinct, the plucky lady produced a .32-caliber silenced Browning automatic pistol—the same weapon with which she had shot the troublesome pickup driver—when Ray Smithson inquired, “What'n hell are
you
doing driving my granddaughter's Bronco?” Thus armed, she managed to push the car door open with her left elbow, get both feet firmly onto the asphalt, and aim her sidearm at the widest of the oncoming male targets—which was Scott Parris, who was fumbling for the .38 nestled in his shoulder holster.

As it happened, Daisy Perika was not present to witness this verifying climax of her breakfast-vision, and shout, “No—stop!” And even if she had been, the tribal elder would not have uttered a word to prevent a shooting that was bound to happen. And even if she had protested, the slender, single-minded state trooper under the flat-brimmed Smoky hat would not have paid Daisy's plea for the woman's life the slightest heed.

—
IT
'
S
OVER 
…
ALMOST
(
EXCEPT
FOR
THE
HARD
PART
)

Approximately a quarter second before Miss Whysper could pull the trigger on Scott Parris, a 9-mm round erupted from the barrel of Officer “Ice-Eyes” Jackson's sidearm. The spinning projectile passed through the delicate bridge of her nose and drilled through that marvelously complex tissue behind the nasal sinuses where sweet dreams and horrific nightmares alike are produced. The requisite damage done, the half-spent lump of lead popped out of the posterior side of her head to ricochet off the roof of the severely dented rental sedan—to sail off to who knows or cares where. (For those who do, into the resinous trunk of that stunted, twisted cedar over there—the one beside the stumpy red fireplug.)

Her lights thus snuffed out, her earthly sojourn finished, the assassin dropped like a bag of rocks. A fitting end? It would seem so.

All three lawmen had good reason to be satisfied with the outcome, but it would be premature to celebrate Miss Whysper's going away. This day's night was about to get darker still for some. You know who, and can count them on one finger—and a thumb.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY

THE HARD PART?

Not just yet. Charlie Moon is working his way up to that dismal duty ever so slowly … imagine the rancher pouring old, cold sorghum molasses from a crockery jug onto a winter's morning stack of piping-hot flapjacks.

Before our deliberate deputy gets around to that sticky business, Scott Parris has a reasonable request to make of his best friend. But not before expressing his heartfelt appreciation to the Colorado state policeman whose pistol still smoked in his rock-steady hand. “Thank you, Officer Jackson.”

“You are welcome, Chief Parris.” As Ice-Eyes holstered his weapon, he realized that this day's work was about done, and the man's thoughts naturally turned to personal matters. Such as what he might enjoy for supper.
A medium-rare T-bone at the Sugar Bowl?
That'd sure hit the well-known spot.
And a baked spud with sour cream and chives.
Plus a couple of hot sourdough rolls soaked with real butter.
I'll wash it all down with big mug of black coffee.

THE
CHIEF
OF
POLICE
EXPRESSES
A
DESIRE
FOR
CLARIFICATION

Having expressed his gratitude to Jackson, Scott Parris turned his attention to the deputy who'd insisted that he refrain from shooting the suspect. True, none of them suspected that the driver in the wrecked car might pose a deadly threat, but …
Charlie Moon's advice almost got me killed.
And the Ute was not known for putting a brother lawman's life in jeopardy. Which curious circumstance raised that universal question so often posed by betrayed lovers, four-year-olds who delight in vexing their long-suffering mothers—and old friends who are simply puzzled.

Reading the
why
in his friend's blue eyes, Parris's deputy cast a meaningful glance at the state-police officer.

Recognizing the make-yourself-scarce signal and realizing why Charlie Moon needed some time alone with his friend, Jackson mumbled something about the necessity of reporting his shooting of an armed suspect at the Holiday Inn. After casting a sorrowful glance at the GCPD chief of police, the state trooper strode away to put in the call.

Barely aware of Jackson's departure, Scott Parris also ignored the commotion the car wreck and shooting had created among various police and civilian spectators. Having filtered out all this superfluous background noise, he put the question directly to Charlie Moon: “Why didn't you want me to shoot her?”

“My mistake, pardner—a bad call, I guess.” The most forthright man the ex-Chicago cop had ever encountered was avoiding his gaze. “But all things considered, I figured it was best if someone else did it.”
And I'd left my pistol at home.

Knowing half an answer when he heard one, Parris snorted. “It's high time for some straight talk, Charlie.”

“Okay, pard.” Moon looked him right in the eyes. “But you're not going to like what I've got to say.” An understatement that Parris would remember until the day he drew his final breath.

WHAT
CHARLIE
MOON
HAD
TO
SAY

He commenced with a question: “D'you recall what Special Agent McTeague told us about Mrs. Hooten wanting you and me to suffer like she had?”

Their afternoon teleconference with the fed seemed ages away—a previous lifetime. “Lemme think.” Parris closed his eyes in an effort to recollect, and did. “Oh, right—the old crank's confined to a wheelchair. She wants you and me to end up the same way, so she sends a shooter to cripple both of us.” The thought of getting kneecapped with a .32-caliber chunk of red-hot lead, or his spine shattered with a bigger number than that, was more scary than getting shot stone-cold dead. The macho cop shrugged off the threat. “So what—she's a nutty old woman who doted on her lowlife, purse-snatching, son-of-a-bitch son, who'd be alive today if the jackass hadn't plied his trade here in Granite Creek. What do we care
what
she said?”
Now that the shooter's dead.

Ignoring his friend's more or less hypothetical query, Moon continued. “When Mrs. Hooten said we ought to suffer
like she had,
I figure she meant it literally—but in a different sense.”

“Don't make this too hard for me, Charlie.” The spent cop leaned against the assassin's wrecked automobile. “It's been a kind of busy afternoon, and my thinker is running on fumes.” His gaze locked with Miss Whysper's blank stare.
I wonder what goes wrong, for a smart young woman like that to take up killing folks to make a living.

Ignoring the warm corpse at their feet, Moon continued. “The notion that Mrs. Hooten wanted us crippled was Bureau Intelligence's majority opinion.” Taking professional note of the 9-mm hole between Missy Whysper's eyes, he could not help admiring Jackson's marksmanship. “McTeague wasn't authorized to pass on the
minority
view, but I'd lay ten-to-one odds that she leaned toward that one—and wanted us to figure it out for ourselves.”

“I'm so tired I couldn't add two to three and get four. I mean
five
.” Parris tried to rub imaginary sand from his eyes. “Tell me straight-out what's on your mind.”

“It's just a best guess, but here's how it looks to me. The way Mrs. Hooten sees it, we're a couple of brutal cops who deliberately killed her son.” The Indian turned a dark gaze on his friend. “That score has to be settled, and she's an old-fashioned mother who prefers the ‘eye for eye, tooth for tooth' kind of justice.” The Ute felt a frigid breeze caress the back of his neck. “The best way to make us suffer the way
she's
suffering would be to send a hired gun to kill
our
sons.”

“Well, maybe so.” Numb as his brain was, a salient factoid occurred to Scott Parris. The lonely bachelor felt obliged to share it. “I don't have a son.” He managed an anemic smile. “And unless you've been keeping a deep secret from your best buddy for all these years—neither do you.”

“I don't have a son, pard—and neither one of us has a daughter.” The deputy helped himself to a breath of chill night air. “Or any close family left.”

Parris was beginning to get a glimmer of what was brewing in the Indian's brain. “But you practically have yourself a wife.”

“That's a fact.” Loath to continue along this dreary pathway, Moon refreshed himself with a happy thought:
And next month, I will have one.
He cleared his throat. “I also have—or
used
to have a foreman. And Pete had himself a fine wife.”

Parris stared at the dead assassin, blinking twice. “You figure it was Miss Whysper that murdered the Bushmans?”

Moon nodded. “Last night at supper, Dolly invited our Columbine houseguest over to the Big Hat today for coffee. The invitation was declined.” The rancher lifted his chin to gaze at a sooty-dark sky.
Somewhere up yonder, maybe a billion light-years away, stars are twinkling.
“But sometime this afternoon, the Bushmans both died from a blow on the head—just like LeRoy Hooten.”

“Okay. Let's say Miss Whysper offed the Bushmans.” Heaving a great sigh, the town cop posed another question: “But why didn't she raise a hand against either Daisy or Sarah?”

“Professional killers aren't generally suicidal,” Moon murmured. “A double murder at the Columbine was too risky. But if Sarah or Daisy had been away from the ranch today…”

“Okay.” Parris glared at the corpse. “But it still don't add up, Charlie. Just last evening, we found this woman in Miss Smithson's hotel room. And when I went downstairs to check her out, the name on the register was Louella Smithson.”

“And like you said a few minutes ago, Miss Smithson wouldn't be likely to shoot her granddaddy dead.” The rancher eyed the assassin's corpse with detached professional interest, as if examining a coyote he'd killed for raiding the chicken pen. “Which raises a couple of pertinent questions. What was Miss Whysper doing in Miss Smithson's hotel room—and where is the real Louella Smithson?”

Parris shrugged. “Beats me.”

The Indian turned his face toward the direction from which they'd come. “Miss Smithson's body is back at Patsy's house—in that burned-out Bronco.”

“Oh, right.” Having temporarily forgotten about that particular corpse, the Caucasian lawman felt a surge of nausea.
I'd have to get better to die.
“So how'd the corpse get there?”

“That's where Miss Whysper left it last evening.”

“You figure she followed Ray Smithson's granddaughter to the Holiday Inn?”

“Sure. And then into the lobby, and to her room.” Count three Charlie Moon heartbeats. “Maybe the assassin intended to do the job there, but for one reason or another she didn't have the opportunity.” Two more heartbeats. “But Miss Smithson must've gone back outside to get something out of her car. That has to be where it happened.”

“Okay.” Parris closed his eyes long enough to view the hideous picture. “Whysper follows Smithson back out to the parking lot, and probably loops the wire around her neck just as she opens the Bronco door.” Imagining the horror of being strangled to death, the lawman tried to swallow past a constriction in his throat. He could not quite manage it.

Moon picked up on the story. “Miss Whysper took the keys to the Bronco and the hotel room off her victim, and left Miss Smithson in the Bronco. Then—cool as you please—she went back inside to see what she could find in room 215. She probably wanted to find out how much Miss Smithson knew about her, and who she might've shared her knowledge with.” Charlie Moon glanced at the Hertz sticker on the wrecked sedan. “If the four of us hadn't shown up while she was still in Miss Smithson's hotel room—reading whatever interesting stuff she could find on her victim's pink laptop computer—I expect she'd have driven off in her rental car a few minutes later.” Parris's deputy took a brief look at the Holiday Inn's rear windows, where dozens of curious cattlemen tourists were gazing into the parking lot and wondering
what in tarnation
was going on out there. “Miss Whysper would've hightailed it in her own wheels right after we left, but I invited her to stay the night at the Columbine while she
researched her book
.”