Three Sisters (43 page)
Authors: James D. Doss
Footnote
: For those few who care about such minutiae, a few additional details may be of interest. Or not. In any case, here they are.
Mr. Moon was not the only person who experienced a revelation upon encountering an unexpected image on a shiny surface. (We refer to his sighting of flames in the TV psychic’s eyes.)
The other, more recent event occurred in this manner: When Moon carried Beatrice Spencer into his bedroom, switched on the floor lamp so that she could see the watercolors hung over the head of his bed, the startled lady fastened her fingers into his arm, and her gaze upon the framed photograph of Lila Mae McTeague. You remember this, of course.
Now think about it. Nothing comes to mind? Think again.
It still does not compute?
Then
reflect
upon it.
Aha! Quite right.
On the glass over Miss McTeague’s pretty face, Bea had seen a reflected image of her murderous masterpiece—knew in a flash that the crafty tribal investigator was about to confront her with evidence of an unseemly application of fine art—and immediately launched the ruthless “You are so sweet” counterattack.
Charlie Moon (bless his honest soul) never had a chance. But his earlier appraisal had been right on the mark.
What a woman!
Whatever happened to Bobbie Sue?
We do not know. But every now and then there is an unsubstantiated rumor, an unlikely anecdote. Of the latter class, the following is the unlikeliest.
Oscar “Bud” Yirty, an easygoing, hard-drinking, Columbine fence-rider known for his tale tales,
swore
to three of his bunkhouse confidants that last November, whilst he was looking to poach one of Charlie Moon’s big bull elk that graze up yonder where the north pasture butts up against the Buckhorns, he had encountered “the dingety-damnedest thing I’ve ever seen, boys, and I’ll tell you whut—if I’m a-lyin’, I’m a-dyin’. I saw it all from up on Bent-Nose Crag. Now I’m not claimin’ I could hear ever’thing that was said, but I sure heard enough, and I saw both of ’em through my brand-spankin’-new adjustable-power Leopold rifle scope, and I’m talkin’
in broad daylight.
There in a little clearin’ in the pines, hunkered down by a campfire like they was ol’ friends, was the boss with a book in his hand, readin’ out loud. And sittin’ on the cold ground was the biggest damn bear I ever saw. And it was leanin’ for’ard—listenin’ to ever single word Charlie Moon said.”
After the rude laughter and vulgar abuse had died down, the patient storyteller continued without taking umbrage: “Now boys, I know for a absolute
fact
that Charlie was a-learnin’ that animal from the book ’cause ever’ now and then, why that ol’ bear’d nod, or shake his head, an’ once he even raised his paw, like he had a question to ast!” Bud paused for a sip of Bud.
His audience was won over; the utter extravagance of this appalling lie was met with the respectful silence that occurs when spectators realize they are present at a historic, once-in-a-lifetime, stem-winder performance. “And here’s the real corker, boys. After I laid my rifle barrel on a rock and got me a good, steady look through the scope, I could see the cover a that book Charlie Moon was readin’ from as good as I can see the hairy holes in your noses.” The storyteller jutted his bristly chin, glared with bile-yellow eyes. “You know what the name a that book was?”
The mystified cowboys shook their heads.
Bud Yirty told them, “
I Learn My A-B-C’s—that’s
what it was!”
Well. Who would believe such an improbable tale.
Keep reading for a sneak peek
at James D. Doss’s next Charlie Moon novel
Snake Dreams
Coming soon in hardcover
from St. Martin’s Minotaur
Nightmare
Yours? Not tonight.
This particular horror is reserved for two souls already deep in sleep—and a third who burns with a perverse appetite.
You have nothing to fear from this nasty business.
Unless…
Unless you should assume too intimate an interest, allow yourself to become unduly absorbed—irretrievably
entangled
.
Not a chance?
Very well.
But there are invariably some who do. A few. Perhaps one or two.
For those reckless souls, the following cautions are hereby provided.
First, a suggestion: Refrain from focusing too closely on the stark desert dreamscape—such intense concentration is likely to unduly excite the fertile imagination, which will conjure up all manner of poisonous viper, rabid rodent, and other vile nocturnal characters that slither and scuttle about in the darkness.
Second, a recommendation: Do not incline your ear to the unwary pair’s sighs and groans and snores and moans, and firmly refuse to hear the lurid murmurings of the third wretched creature, who—in frantic anticipation of the atrocity—
giggles
.
Last, this warning: Remain where you are. Resist any temptation to drift off into the shadowlands, and beware any glib stranger who might invite you to witness the unsavory event. Yielding to such an enticement could prove dangerous.
While no guarantee of absolute safety is made or implied, paying close heed to the aforementioned counsel should keep you reasonably—
What—you have already crossed that beckoning boundary, are even now entering into the dismal regions?
Then it is too late.
You have purchased your share of the nightmare.
Be advised that all such transactions are final.
There are no refunds.
And no
returns
.
All these big brouhahas have to get started sometime and someplace and this one commenced two summers back, about midway between Pecos and El Paso.
It was a few owl-hoots past sundown when a brand-new moon floated up to shine a fine, silvery sheen on the favored side of the mountains. Very nice. And it should’ve stopped right then and there, but no—like some folks you know, that two-faced satellite has a dark side, and just as it was brightening up the eastern slopes, it flooded that big dusty trough between the Delaware peaks and the Sierra Diablos with shadows, and we’re not talking about a widow’s veil of night shade that wouldn’t keep you from seeing what o’clock it was on your granddaddy’s dollar pocket watch. Nosiree, this was sure-enough mucky stuff, black as Texas Tea, too thick to churn and firm enough to slice with Mr. Bowie’s knife.
If we were to wait around until that pockmarked face gets about four hours high, the murky lake would start to drain and dry and any poor soul who happened to happen by and got blinded and drowned in it would be able to see and breathe again. But this is right now and that’ll be then and it’s not night-meandering pilgrims we’re interested in, so let’s mosey on over to where the trouble’s about to begin.
Watch your step, now. Don’t put your foot on them prickly pears. Or that feisty little sidewinder.
See that tattered old tent over yonder?
Aim your eyeball a tad more to the left.
They’re camped right beside the rusted-out pickup that’s hitched to the horse trailer that’s empty because just this morning the rider swapped his piebald pony for a shiny Mexican trumpet and three bottles of Patrón Reposado tequila. The feller still has the brass horn, but he’s too high to toot on it and too far under to have the least notion of the serious Bad News that’s about to bite him in the neck.
The forty-four-year-old woman (married, mother of one) is entwined in the arms of a broken-down old rodeo cowboy who never asked her name. Oblivious to his indifferent embrace, Chiquita Yazzi has drifted away into a twilight place. While she watches a splendid black swan glide upon a mirrored pond, a bright-eyed little girl runs along the grassy bank to hug Momma’s neck. How do mother and daughter while away these blissful hours? They laugh at fluttering butterflies, sing happy songs, pick pretty flowers. In even this feeble facsimile of paradise, only the sublime should be called to mind—ugly memories should not be permitted entry. Sadly, it is not to be. The bright vision takes a dark turn into a vermin-infested alley. The mother—as only mothers can—senses danger close at hand. She instinctively reaches out to pull her child close. The little girl, a moment ago so warm—is cold to Momma’s embrace.
An unhappy turn of events. But it is merely a dream, which will quickly fade from memory. What we desire is a change of scenery, so let us return to the world of flesh and blood and see what is afoot there.
For the most part, ordinary events common to the nighttime desert.
In a shallow arroyo, a scaly something glides silently by.
A melancholy breeze heaves a wistful sigh.
Inside the tent?
Already stinking of beer and sweat, the has-been bull rider adds urine to the pungent brew. Thus relieved, he sinks ever deeper in his drunken stupor.
And the woman is…But what is this?
No. Don’t look.
A tarantula strides oh-so-deliberately along the lady’s forehead. Before moving on to explore other parts of her anatomy, the fascinated arachnid pauses—extends a bristly foreleg…strokes her dark eyebrow.
Altogether too dreadful? Then let us depart from the canvas shelter.
On the way out, we shall encounter the third member of this ill-fated trio.
Snake Dreams
But do they, really?
This is a highly controversial subject, hotly debated among distinguished zoologists and eminent her petologists—which shall be settled here and now. The answer is:
Yes.
They most certainly do.
The more fascinating, and not quite settled, issue is—
what
do slithery-slimy serpents dream about?
We are about to find out.
The Serpent’s Nightmare
Underneath a shadowy sea, unseen by the rusty red moon face hanging high in the dusty West Texas sky, the night crawler watches. Waits.
Is this entity a human being? By the most generous definition—yes.
A he or a she? Moonlight has not yet illuminated the subject sufficiently. We must wait and see. What do we know with certainty?
That the assassin is cold sober, wide awake, recently bathed—and near enough to hear the woman’s raspy breaths, the boyfriend’s intermittent snores.
The time has come to settle scores.
Inching along on its belly, the sinister pseudoviper wriggles into the tent, rises above the intended victims. A crooked grin splits the hate-twisted face—a silvery straight razor glistens in a pale hand.
Flickity-flash!
Snickety-slash!
