The Old Gray Wolf (36 page)

“Well,” Parris admitted, “her staying at your ranch was my idea.”
But this is getting crazier and crazier.
“Being cool is one thing, Charlie. But it's hard to believe that Miss Whysper drove that old Bronco all the way to your ranch last evening—with Louella Smithson's corpse
still inside
.”

“She didn't have much choice, pardner—if she'd left the old heap here in the parking lot, someone might've spotted the dead body after the sun come up.”
And soon as she parked it at the Columbine, Sidewinder picked up a scent of human remains—and all that howling late that night was his way of telling me about it.
The Ute made a promise to himself:
From now on, I'll pay more attention to what dogs have to say.

Scott Parris was still trying to wrap his head around Charlie Moon's grisly scenario. “And today, the assassin hauls Miss Smithson's cold cadaver
back
to town?”

The deputy nodded. “With a short stopover at the Big Hat, where she took care of some business.”

“That is
really
cold-blooded.” The hard-bitten lawman, who thought he'd seen and heard just about everything a man could encounter in his line of work, could not suppress a shudder. “She must've taken us for a couple of idiots.” An additional embarrassing detail occurred to Parris. “Miss Whysper couldn't very well check out of the Holiday Inn—because she'd never checked in. So she finagled the local chief of police into checking Louella Smithson out.”

“Last night, she was on her toes all right.”
But something upset Miss Whysper this morning at breakfast.
The Ute paused as he recalled the ghost story his aunt had recounted during that meal. Something about a dead woman who'd come to Daisy's bedside last night, and claimed she was locked inside a truck somewhere. Like other rugged SUVs, the stolen Bronco that Miss Whysper had driven to the Columbine was classified as a
truck
. Was it a mere coincidence that the murderer had gotten choked on something from her plate—or had his guest been startled by the suggestion that Louella Smithson's disembodied presence had drifted into the Columbine headquarters last night—to tell Daisy that her corpse was outside in the Bronco? Perhaps Miss Whysper had shared Aunt Daisy's belief in haunts who make their appearance during those dark hours when their dim light might be seen. And then, lurking in that darkest closet of his mind, was the unthinkable possibility.

It whispered to him from behind a securely locked door:
Maybe Louella Smithson's spirit really
did
visit Daisy.

This suggestion was summarily dismissed.

Charlie Moon did not care to go there. If a man doesn't want to slip off the deep end and never come up again, he has to draw the line somewhere.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

ALMOST THERE

While Charlie Moon mused about his aunt Daisy's ghostly experiences and other imponderables, Scott Parris hardly had a thought in his head; the lawman stared blankly at nothing whatever.
I could lay down right here in the parking lot and go to sleep.
To slumber dreamlessly forever … to awaken never. “I'm sorry, Charlie.” He lowered his head and groaned. “But I'm worn out. All this is just too much to deal with.”

It ain't over yet, pardner.
“Take a break Scott; rest your bones and brain.”

Parris seated himself on a section of front bumper that projected from the wreckage.

To Charlie Moon's practiced eye, his best friend resembled an over-the-hill, weak-in-the knees heavyweight contender who'd taken too many hard punches. A light tap on the chin and Parris might go down for the full count. But there was no way out—somebody was bound to land the knockout blow. Moon assumed (and rightly so) that the officers who'd arrived in the GCPD black-and-white had been sent to break the horrific news about Tiffany Mayfair's murder to the chief of police. The reason for the deputy's dark suspicion? Just this: the uniformed cops, understandably loath to perform their thankless duty, had remained securely in their unit—putting off the unhappy encounter with the boss for as long as possible. But delaying a dose of unpleasant medicine only makes the eventual remedy that much harder to spoon out … and to swallow. So Charlie Moon was elected, and the man in the black hat knew that …
One way or another, I've got to get this business over and done with
. But not until Scott at least had a chance to catch his breath.

Somewhere off in the darkness, a lonesome, home-alone, backyard beagle barked twice and then whined.

Nearer by, a pickup's radio suddenly boomed full-blast with a sad 1950s Hank Williams ballad. (Old Hank was so lonely he could
cry
.)

The hound let out a prolonged, mournful howl—as if crooning a melancholy duet with his forlorn soul mate. As oftentimes happens after nightfall, the heartfelt canine yodel seemed uncannily appropriate.

Behind an open hotel window, a drunken woman's shrill laugh cut through the night like a steak knife slicing off a raw slice of blackest despair.

The Ute waited with characteristic patience. Stolid as a knotty-pine Indian stationed in front of a cigar store, Charlie Moon counted his heavy heartbeats.

On ventricular contraction number forty-two, the stone mask slipped off Parris's face. He rubbed at his eyes.

Moon: “You feeling some better, pardner?”

“Almost as good as death warmed over.” As he got to his feet, Scott Parris returned Moon's gaze and was startled to see the bleak expression there.
Charlie has something else that needs telling.
The lawman who didn't want to hear any more bad news today could not help asking, “So what's gnawing at you?”

Presented with the invitation he'd been waiting for—and dreading—the deputy held his tongue. Say what you will of tired old maxims and tedious clichés, there are occasions when silence does speak louder than words. The Ute's tight lips fairly screamed.

The chief of police was aware of a slight buzz in his ears, a dreadful tingling in his fingertips. “There's something about Whysper you haven't told me.”

The time had come. Moon pointed his boot toe at the silenced .32-caliber automatic just inches from the assassin's hand. “When you banged on that hotel-room door last night, we're lucky that Cowboy didn't think we'd showed up to make an arrest—and shoot us dead.”

“Yeah.” The white cop stared dumbly at the lethal weapon.

The Ute angler dangled the terrible bait: “If it'd been
just you and me
at the door, we probably wouldn't be here anymore.”

“Yeah.” Scott Parris didn't bite. “Good thing Whysper realized that we took her for Louella Smithson.”
That was a sure-enough close call.

He sure ain't making this easy.
Like a blind man stepping into quicksand, Charlie Moon pressed on. “Once she realized our mistake, Miss Whysper must've figured she'd hit the jackpot. She's in Miss Smithson's hotel room for a few minutes, checking out her victim's personal effects—and you and me show up like a couple of clowns …
with our lady friends
.” The deputy held his breath.
Please. Take the hint.

“Right.” Parris helped himself to a half portion of the suggestion. “And when she learns that you're engaged to Patsy, the hired gun knows right away who one of her intended victims is. But tonight, she mistook Patsy's sister for—” This thought was interrupted by a wrenching coldness that twisted his gut.
It's unlikely, but just to be on the safe side …
“I'd better call Tiffany and make sure she's all right.”

Moon heard his mouth say, “That call has already been made, pardner.”

“Thanks, Charlie—you think of everything.” The exhausted cop closed his eyes. “I'm glad that this is all over and done with.”

Charlie Moon averted his gaze from his friend's haggard face. “I wish it was.” And,
I wish I was someplace ten thousand miles from here so somebody else would have to tell you.

NOW
FOR
THE
HARD
PART

Scott Parris's bull neck was sore from shaking his head, but he did it again. “The murderer's laying here stone-cold dead at our feet—Patsy and Tiffany are okay—and as far as we know, Patsy's sister will survive.”
And we already know the Bushmans are dead
. “So what's the big problem I
don't
know about?”

As he tried to find his voice, Charlie Moon was fearful that he wouldn't be able to pull this off.

Parris was also afraid; his fear increased when he saw the Indian's deathly grim expression.

“I'm sorry, pard. Clara Tavishuts made the call to check on Professor Mayfair, but…” That was all Moon could get past his lips.

It was sufficient.

“Oh, God …
no
.” Having taken the hit square on the chin, Tiffany Mayfair's sweetheart reeled and grabbed at the wrecked sedan's open door.

Charlie Moon reached out to steady his friend.

The stricken man blinked at the darkness, and his voice was hoarse with dread. “Tiffany … you're telling me she's actually
dead
?” Such a horror did not seem possible.

Moon nodded.

Light-years beyond a rage that he could not express without slipping into madness, Scott Parris was rescued by his brain—which shifted into mind-survival mode.

The deputy was chilled to see his old friend revert to his former Chicago PD persona—a gruff, big-city cop inquiring about a run-of-the-mill homicide.

“So how'd Whysper do it, Charlie—gunshot?”

“No. Same as with Pete, Dolly—and Patsy's sister. A blow to the head.”

“Like the purse snatcher got his.” Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth.
All this because I tossed a damn can of black-eyed peas at a petty criminal who wasn't worth lizard spit!
Ever so gradually, Parris returned to himself. One salty bead at a time, the tough guy's eyes filled with bitter tears, and his husky voice made a plea: “Tiffany must've died … passed quickly.”
Please tell me she did.

“Of course she did, pard. It was all over before the lady knew what'd happened.”
But she must've seen it coming.
The deputy recalled an incident a long time ago in Ignacio when a delivery van running a Stop sign had hit his bicycle. Time had slowed in the instant of impact; a fractional second stretched into a minute—and then the lights went out. But that was way back when and this was right now.

“One dead assassin.” As Parris toed the pistol away from Miss Whysper's stiffening fingers, he counted the others. Louella Smithson, whom he'd never met. Her fine old Texas Ranger granddaddy. Pete and Dolly Bushman. And of course … Tiffany. “Five upstanding citizens to one lowlife—that ain't a very good score for the home team, Charlie.”

“That it's not, pard.”

Yes, Parris's count was short, but neither he nor his deputy was aware of the brutal murder of upstanding citizen number six. The cold, gray corpse of Special Agent Mary Anne Clayton, aka Marcella Clay, lay on a stainless-steel tray in an unspecified federal morgue in Prince George County. Was this outstanding public servant to be forgotten by her government? Perish the very thought. And neither would the woman who had dispatched the assassin to Granite Creek County. The Agent Clayton case would not be closed until the remains of Francine Hooten were six feet under the sod, and an anonymous—

But should such an unseemly, unofficial ritual be revealed?

You bet.

The Agent Clayton case would not be closed until the remains of Francine Hooten were six feet under the sod and an anonymous special agent (who'd selected the cherished short straw) had
urinated on Mrs. Hooten's grave.

But that victory celebration was somewhere far over the yonder horizon. In the meantime, what about the Colorado lawmen? They had suffered through a month-long day; there was nothing more to say. Not with words.

During the ensuing silence, Scott Parris wept openly, his heavy shoulders heaving with every sob.

No less wounded than his best friend, Charlie Moon didn't taste the salty blood he'd bitten from his lip.

 

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

SAYING GOODBYE (VARIATIONS ON A THEME)

We are assured (by those
in the know
) that funerals in whatever form serve the worthy function of comforting the bereaved, and in many instances this is no doubt so. But what about those silent players who occupy center stage at these solemn rituals? More to the point—do the spirits of the dearly departed linger long enough to witness the final ceremonies performed in their honor?

For some of us, the question of ghosts remains one of those open issues—perhaps to be resolved when we are eventually privileged (or not) to view the subject from a distinctly different perspective.

Those who are convinced that matter “is all that is or ever was or ever will be” will smile (or even sneer) at such a naïve question. But note that by actual count, some 82 percent of these no-nonsense folk talk to dogs, cats—and grave markers.

There are, of course, firmly opposing views that are based upon sacred tradition, impressive anecdotal evidence, and compelling personal experience.

Fascinating as it might be to examine these conflicting opinions in great depth and with considerable sensitivity, we prefer to proceed as all moderns do when it is necessary to settle a knotty issue. We shall take a poll. No, do not anticipate an extremely annoying robo-call at 10:00
P.M.
This is strictly a shoestring operation, so in the interest of economy this survey of the population will not be strictly scientific—our sample size is
one
. (PhD statisticians will please resist the compelling urge to offer helpful advice.)