Coffin Man

by James D. Doss

  It was debatable whether such worrying might actually be worse than stark, wide-eyed terror of a real and present danger. Debilitating as the latter experience was, the threat of imminent death did tend to heighten one’s sense of being alive—and enable the threatened mortal to do her utmost to remain firmly in that preferred state.

  By the time the unsettled woman turned her motor vehicle into the long, dirt driveway to her ramshackle dwelling, she had finally accepted the fact that … I’m in way over my head. Wanda pulled the Toyota Tercel to an abrupt stop and blinked at a low-hanging juniper branch. Swaying in the breeze, the gaunt arm beckoned her to an empty house that could never be a real home again. Not without my daughter. The anemic headlight beams attempted with pathetic futility to illuminate the inky road that led to the end of the trail. I can’t handle this mess all by myself. She opened her purse, found a pack of mint-flavored cigarettes, put one between her lips, and touched a lighter to its tip. I need some help. She inhaled a long breath of the carcinogenic vapors, then exhaled a puff of gray smoke to fog the windshield. So what do I do? She knew. Pass the buck where it belonged. I’ll tell the cops where Mike’s trailer is and that when I went to ask him what he knew about Betty he took some shots at me. Not such a bad notion, and not so far from the truth. Thus buoyed, her fertile imagination presented a romantic version of the outcome: That tough white cop and the hard-eyed Ute will hunt Mike down and beat him with fists and blackjacks until he admits he tried to murder me and tells them what he’s done with Betty.

  But contacting the legally constituted authority would be risky.

  Wanda knew that once a person started talking to the police … The cops won’t stop till they’ve wormed everything they want to know out of you. And not only that … Mike might tell them that I chased him off by shooting at him and then came to his trailer with a pistol in my hand. Life was so terribly unfair, and making important decisions was extremely difficult. She took another puff. And another. But if I don’t call the cops right this minute, I’ll chicken out.

  Which was just what she did.

  As if to terminate her inner conversation, she stuffed the used-up cigarette butt into the Tercel’s overfilled ashtray. Which freed up her right hand. Which is worth mentioning.

  As it happened, Wanda’s dominant hand feared nothing in all creation, and it also knew what to do. The spunky appendage reached into the open purse where her .38 revolver was nestled coldly inside, waiting for the mere touch of a finger on the trigger to snuff out a worthless life.

  No. That was not what her hand had in mind.

  Her clever fingers were looking for something else. And found it.

  Wondering how the instrument had gotten into her hand, Wanda stared dumbly at the pink mobile telephone. Without waiting for an instruction from the semirational fraction of her brain, the hand’s dexterous pointing finger punched in 911. She obediently pressed the instrument against her ear, just in time to hear Clara Tavishuts bark, “Granite Creek PD—what is the nature of your emergency?”

  Wanda Naranjo opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

  “Hello—is anyone there?”

  “Yeah.” The woman in the Toyota licked her lips. “I’m here.”

  “Please give me your name and location.”

  “I’m Wanda Naranjo and I’m in my car.”

  “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “I can’t talk about it on the phone.” Wanda felt her face blush.

  Miss Tavishuts, who’d heard it all in her two decades as a police dispatcher, didn’t blink. “How may I help you, ma’am?”

  “You can put the boss cop on the phone.”

  “Chief Parris?”

  Wanda nodded.

  “Hello? Are you there, Mrs. Naranjo?”

  “Mm-hm.” The citizen chewed her numb lower lip until she tasted the salty flavor of the crimson fluid that pulsed through her arteries. “I ain’t going nowhere till I talk to your boss.”

  “I’m sorry, but Chief Parris isn’t here. I’ll ask the night-duty officer to speak to you—”

  “Forget that.” Another possibility occurred to her. “Get Charlie Moon on the phone.”

  “Are you the same lady who called last Friday, asking for—”

  “Yes I am.”

  “Then you’ll recall that Mr. Moon is a part-time deputy, ma’am. He doesn’t take citizens’ calls—”

  “Then I’ll talk to Parris.”

  “Could your inquiry wait until morn—”

  “No it can’t!” Wanda spat blood onto the steering wheel. “It’s a matter of life and death.” Betty’s probably already dead and my turn might come up any minute now.

  “Please hold on, ma’am—I’ll see if I can locate the chief.”

  “Like I said, I ain’t going nowhere.” She switched off the Toyota’s headlights and turned the ignition key to silence the idling engine. For a full minute, the distraught citizen with her ear to the mobile phone listened to classical music—courtesy of GCPD. Joseph Haydn. String Quartet Op. 64. No. 2, B minor. Allegro spiritoso. Your smallish Rocky Mountain cow-town cop shops are not without a touch of class. Or, if you prefer—a hint of pretension … a smidgen of affectation.

  The soothing musical interlude was interrupted by the dispatcher’s voice, less barkish this time: “Chief Parris is on his way, Mrs. Naranjo.”

  Relief rolled over her like a spring flood. “When’ll he show up?”

  “The chief didn’t give me an ETA.”

  “Then gimme your best guess.”

  “Oh…” The distant dispatcher’s shrug was perceptible. “I’d say just a few minutes.”

  “That’ll be fine. G’bye.” I’ll need a little while to get my thoughts together. Wanda Naranjo restarted the engine, switched on the headlights, and drove the final quarter mile to her house in low gear.

  * * *

  An explanatory observation involving ethnic and regional concepts of time may prove helpful.

  Here they are:

  Like Charlie Moon, Clara Tavishuts is a full-blooded Southern Ute.

  But unlike the tribal investigator, the GCPD dispatcher operates strictly on Indian Time.

  Though Wanda Naranjo was half Picuris Pueblo Indian, she did not realize that Clara’s just a few minutes might run anywhere from “pretty danged quick” to “as long as it takes Chief Parris to get there.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  BETTER LATE THAN NEVER?

  In this instance, the answer is—no!

  The unfortunate incident commenced in the following manner:

  After parking her automobile underneath a sickly elm that was still half garbed in last year’s desiccated leaves, Wanda grabbed her purse, slammed the car door, trotted across the moonlit yard, hurried up the front porch steps, unlocked the door, stepped inside her parlor, slammed and latched the door—and let out the breath she’d been holding for so long that her eyes were about to pop. Inhaling deeply, she stood in the dark with the .38 caliber revolver in her trembling hand. It would not be excessively lurid to assert that “Fear’s icy grip had begun to clutch at her heart again.”

  The clock on the parlor wall ticked.

  I don’t know why I’m so afraid.

  And tocked.

  I’ve got a loaded gun in my hand … and … That big blue-eyed cop will be here any minute now.

  And tick-tocked. But ever more slowly, it seemed—as if Wanda Naranjo’s quota of time was about to run out. When the edgy lady had aged about nineteen years, she heard the sound of an approaching motor vehicle. Finally! She switched on the porch light, and with the Smith & Wesson gripped tightly in her right hand, she used her left to pull back a tattered window curtain—100 percent certain that she would see the cop’s car. Every life must have its share of disappointments. The motor vehicle that pulled up was not a GCPD black-and-white, but it was one that she recognized. Betty Naranjo’s momma was wide-eyed with surprise. Well would you look at that!

  She slipped
the firearm into her coat pocket, unlocked the door a half inch, and peeked through the crack. The heel of her right hand resting lightly on the pistol’s checkered walnut handle, Wanda sneered as she watched her visitor mount the steps onto the porch with typical masculine confidence. Isn’t that just like a man—the bastards figure they can drop by any old time they please and you’ll be overjoyed to see them. She opened the door wide.

  The visitor’s expression was—and there is no better way to put it—sheepish.

  “Well, would you look at what the cat drug in.”

  The homely fellow removed his cap. “I come to fix that leak under your kitchen sink.”

  Wanda’s tone was deceptively calm, not unlike the eye of a hurricane. “I called you on Friday.”

  Avoiding the homeowner’s hard gaze, he turned the cap in his hands. “Uh … I run into a spot of trouble and couldn’t make it.”

  The lady’s upper lip curled to express her extreme distaste. “Well, you’re three days late and a dollar short.”

  “I sure am sorry, ma’am.” The hopeful man glanced toward his truck. “If you still want me to take a look at the leak, I’ll go get my toolbox.”

  One does not wish to make excuses for those high-strung citizens who are prone to overreact. But this much must be said on behalf of Wanda Naranjo: the lady had already had a trying day. This latest outrage was a tad too much. Imagine that final straw being placed upon an already overloaded camel’s back.

  Something inside the woman simply snapped.

  Wanda raised the pistol and pointed it at the startled craftsman’s chest.

  The sensible fellow departed without waiting for a verbal order. And speedily.

  She took careful aim, and fired all five bullets at the ground, not very far behind the fleeing figure’s heels, which encouraged the ungainly fellow to make some mighty high steps. When the cylinder was empty, she pocketed the weapon. That’ll teach the bum a good lesson!

  No doubt.

  But Wanda Naranjo realized that her recent propensity for shooting in the general direction of annoying men was likely to become a habit, and one of dubious merit. She withdrew into the inner sanctum of her home, returned the weapon to her purse, sat down on the couch, kicked her shoes off—and wept. I’m going crazy as a bedbug. If this keeps up, I’ll end up in a lunatic asylum or in prison or dead. Desirous of wiping her eyes, Wanda Naranjo reached for a handy Kleenex box. The dispenser of tissues was empty. She gnashed her teeth. What I need is a long, quiet vacation. Some warm place where I can walk on a sandy beach and stick my toes into the salt water and—

  What was this? The woman noticed that her feet were damp. And she heard a sound not unlike the soothing whisper of surf. Was the power of suggestion conjuring up her hoped-for stroll on the beach’s edge. Sadly, no.

  The worn parlor carpet was soaking wet.

  The surf sound effects—more like the spewing of an artesian spring—was originating in the kitchen.

  Mystery solved.

  It’s another damn leak. The stunned woman stared unseeingly at the cracked-plaster wall. That Ute Indian warned me about all those rusty pipes that need fixing. She blinked. And I just chased the three-days-late plumber away. Wanda Naranjo tried ever so hard to suppress an upsurging giggle. Mission impossible. The snigger just had to come out. Within a few irregular heartbeats, the lady was laughing loudly. Insanely.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  MR. TOP COP ARRIVES

  Some twenty minutes after Wanda Navajo had encouraged the repentant plumber’s retreat with gunshots, Scott Parris arrived in his venerable red Volvo. The lawman, who was taking the call on personal time, was surprised not to see lights glowing in the windows of Mrs. Naranjo’s house. Furthermore, the woman’s Toyota was not parked in the yard. He could hardly believe the woman’s insolence. I’ve drove all the way out here to humor this crank and she’s not even here. It was not like he didn’t have better things to do. I could be in my living room, kicked back in my recliner with an ice-cold Coors in my fist, watching ESPN or HBO and not giving a minute’s thought to this airhead or her runaway teenager. But Parris figured it served him right. I should’ve told Clara Tavishuts to send Officers Knox and Slocum out here. The humiliated chief of police swallowed his pride and an incipient threat of heartburn.

  He was about to make a U-turn and return home when it occurred to him that there was just the slightest chance that something bad had happened here. He tried to think of a “such as” that would fit the peculiar circumstances. The natural villain would be Kauffmann the Coffin Man. Okay, the boyfriend shows up, shoots Wanda Naranjo dead, and hits the road again. But that didn’t explain the woman’s absent Toyota. Not a big problem. He comes back on foot, shoots her, then drives off in her Toyota. This unlikely scenario and the fact that the chief of police already had an unhappy half hour invested in this alleged trouble call settled the matter. I can’t go back home without at least going through the motions of checking things out. Emerging from the Volvo, Parris stomped across the littered yard just as sheet lightning illuminated the cloud-shrouded mountain peaks. An instant after that, a few drops of rain began to pitter-pat onto his felt hat. He mounted the four porch steps in two man-size strides and banged his gloved fist on the door.

  No response.

  “Hello inside!”

  The rain was falling harder.

  Cupping his hand by his mouth, he roared louder than a distant rumble of thunder, “Mrs. Naranjo—it’s Chief Parris!”

  The house creaked as a heavy gust of wind leaned against it. Hail shot out of the clouds like Heaven’s buckshot, peppering the rusty steel roof.

  Great. Though sheltered by the porch from rain and hail, Parris zipped up his jacket against the wind. I’ll get soaking wet before I make it back to my car. On the other hand … If I wait for a couple of minutes, maybe the worst of the storm will pass. Being an energetic sort of fellow who can’t stand around doing nothing at all, he tried the doorknob. When it turned easily, the cop pushed the door open. “Hello—anybody home?” If folks would just remember to lock their homes, it’d cut burglaries by 42 percent. The amateur statistician stepped inside, turned on a pocket flashlight, and bellowed, “Police answering a call—anybody here?”

  The hollow echo of his voice was an eloquent answer.

  After a routine check of several drab rooms, Parris shook his head, muttered a mild oath, and grumped, “Like all I got to do is respond to so-called urgent calls from citizens who don’t even bother to be at home when I show up.” He strode onto the porch, closing the door behind him. Hail was still hammering the metal roof but (he assured himself) not quite so hard now. Parris grinned at his attempt at self-delusion. Not more than two tons a minute. He tugged his hat brim down hard enough to shut off the circulation to his scalp. And the lightning’s getting closer with every strike. As if to validate this observation, a deafening crack of thunder split the sky just as a long finger of crackling fire reached out to tickle the top of a towering poplar that stood not fifty yards away. Hell’s bells and red-hot tamales! He turned up his jacket collar. This storm could go on for half the night. The stubborn man who was determined to go home eagerly eyed his Volvo. So near—yet so far. If I go real fast maybe I won’t get so wet. He gritted his teeth and made a run for it.

  Look at him go!

  Sorry. What happened next serves to illustrate the folly of anticipating.

  The beginning of his sprint was rudely terminated when the heavyset fellow stomped his way through one of the rotted porch steps. Damn—I could’ve broke my ankle!

  Another lightning strike sizzled the brushy crest of a ponderosa, that tree not quite so nearby.

  Parris glared at the threatening sky. Well … if it kills me, then I’m dead.

  Oddly comforted by this empty truism, he limped across the muddy yard and eased his bulk into the familiar automobile. Now, that’s better. The man behind the badge and the steering wheel roared off toward hearth and home with one though
t uppermost in his mind: revenge against a thoughtless citizen. I’ll file a false-report charge against that dopey woman. This satisfying threat was immediately trumped by a healthy dose of reality. No I won’t. Why not? It ain’t worth all the heartburn.

  Speaking of which … the searing gastric acid had surged its way up to his throat.

  The dyspeptic cop fumbled for and found the ever-present roll of Tums in his jacket pocket, bit off three of the white disks, crunched them like candy, and swallowed. Ahhhh … that felt good goin’ down.

  Which raised that ever-pertinent hypothetical question … I wonder what’s goin’ down.

  The issue was, of course, not gastrointestinal. The lawman’s inner query referred to Wanda Naranjo’s unexplained absence. Despite his annoyance, Scott Parris could not dismiss the stubborn fact that … Something about this business ain’t quite kosher. Teenage runaways happen all the time, but … First the daughter goes missing—and now the mother ain’t at home when she should be. And after all … The lady did place a 911 call and Clara said she sounded scared. It occurred to him that Mrs. Naranjo’s corpse might be somewhere nearby … or in the backseat of her car, wherever that vehicle was at the moment. But the frustrated public servant didn’t know what he could do about that.

  Moreover, the off-duty officer had a strong hankering for his easy chair, TV, and a cold brew and was in no mood for negative thinking. So Parris went for a more upbeat scenario: Ten to one, the prodigal daughter came home ten minutes before I showed and her momma was so happy she forgot all about calling the cops. To celebrate, Mrs. Naranjo and Betty got into the Toyota and motored into town to kill the fatted calf and celebrate. Which thought aroused his latent appetite. They’re probably in one of Granite Creek’s fine restaurants right this minute, chowing down on a couple a prime Columbine T-bones and baked Idaho spuds and apple pie and ice cream and no telling what else. His obliging imagination instantly produced a twelve-second video of the mother-daughter reunion in full color. Scott Parris watched the hopeful little drama play out right down to The End.