A Dead Man's Tale

by James D. Doss

  Parris told him how: “You could lie a little bit.”

  “Oh, I don’t know that I could do that.” Reed frowned, but there was a merry sparkle in his eye.

  Charlie Moon stared at the windowpane. “It’s not flat-out lying unless you can convince us it’s the truth.”

  Parris nodded. “And me and Charlie promise not to believe a solitary word you say.”

  The Ute’s voice was silky soft. “Think of it as creative fiction.”

  “I’d like to oblige, really I would.” Samuel Reed kicked his toe at a hideous flower that seemed to be growing out of the carpet. That’s what I get for allowing Irene to decorate the guest house. “But there is simply no way to make a story about myself entertaining.” The middle-aged man smirked. “Unless I sprinkled it with lurid sexual exploits and truckloads of gratuitous violence.”

  “It works on TV,” Parris said.

  But not for Charlie Moon. “What I had in mind was something that would educate me and Scott. In hard times like this, we could benefit from knowing how to invest any spare dollar we might come across.” The lookout watched a cottontail munch at a tender sprout. “We’d be much obliged if you’d give us some pointers.”

  “Of course. Such as how to place bets on sporting events.” Reed ground the offensive carpet-rose under his heel. “And how to predict next week’s price of beef.”

  “That’d be a great help to a rancher like myself.” Moon waited for a heartbeat. “And while you’re at it, you could tell us why you’re so sure that somebody plans to shoot you dead tonight.”

  Scott Parris was instantly alert. Charlie’s onto something.

  “A successful investor does not share his trade secrets,” Reed replied. “Not even with his closest friends.”

  “Then make up something,” the town cop said. “Tell us whatever comes into your head.”

  Barely aware of Parris’s presence in the guest-house bedroom, the canny investor fixed his entire attention on the tribal investigator’s back. “I am tempted to have a go at it.” He paused for a few heartbeats. “But fiction is not my long suit.”

  “Take your time,” Moon said softly. “I expect you’ll come up with something.”

  Reed’s small audience waited.

  And waited.

  The Indian’s still form at the window might have been chiseled from stone.

  Parris might have been sound asleep.

  Even the wind in the pines had fallen to the merest whisper.

  It seemed that the ensuing silence would never end.

  Until Samuel Reed cleared his throat. And began.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  The Scientist-Entrepreneur’s Story

  “I’ve come up with a first-rate corker!” The edgy physicist seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Forget all about crazed apes that pursue terrified ladies across golf courses and hard-up ranchers that hire out as two-bit assassins—compared to the tallness of my tale, such occurrences are utterly commonplace.” He twirled a finger in the air. “I am about to spin a yarn that’ll set your heads to gyrating.”

  If Moon had been a fox, his ears would’ve pricked at this. They did.

  If Parris had been a ’possum, he would’ve grinned. He did.

  The over-caffeinated storyteller got up from the bed and strutted across the dimly illuminated room. “In the interest of complete disclosure and utterly disarming honesty, I shall stipulate right up front that my offering is presented entirely in the interest of entertainment.” He cast a sly glance at the Ute. “By no means do I intend to convey the impression that there is the least grain of truth in it.”

  Sam Reed’s glance had not gone unnoticed by Scott Parris. Something’s going on between him and Charlie, and I’d give a week’s wages to know what it is. The wallet in his hip pocket felt paper-thin. Okay, let’s say a day’s pay.

  Without shifting his gaze from Professor Reed’s upscale residence, Charlie Moon leaned against the window frame and settled in to enjoy the slippery man’s performance. This oughta be good.

  It oughta and it would.

  Clasping his hands behind his waist, Reed began to pace back and forth alongside the bed. “In strictest confidence, I shall reveal the secret of my enviable success as the business world’s most remarkable prognosticator.” Inordinately pleased with this opening line, the consummate actor helped himself to a deep breath. He expelled it with: “So. How do you fellows like it so far?”

  Parris shrugged. Also grunted.

  When the taciturn Indian did not respond, Reed paused in mid-stride. “And what say you, Mr. Moon?”

  Silence hung heavily around the Ute, like the atmosphere gets just before a rip-snorting cyclone comes a-whirling over the prairie to yank trees up, roots and all. Moon’s response was like a rumble of distant thunder. “I’d say you haven’t quite got started yet.”

  “A fair observation.” Reed affected a worried look. “I must admit to some apprehension.” Pure, unadulterated malarkey—the narrator was as cool as the evening breeze. “In fact, I am not sure I should continue.” Six strong men with a hundred yards of duct tape could not have sealed his lips.

  The Ute-thunder rumbled closer. “Why’s that?”

  “What I have to say is likely to prove unnerving. Perhaps even ruin your day.”

  “Go right ahead,” Moon said.

  “Very well, if you insist.” He restarted his pacing, paused after three strides. “In this tale, I shall refer to an entirely fictitious version of myself. With that fact in mind—and despite my natural modesty—I shall present my compelling narrative in that popular form known as ‘first person.’”

  “Works for me,” Parris muttered.

  “Prepare yourselves for a shock.” Samuel Reed drew himself up to his full height. “I do not foresee the future—I remember it.”

  The tale-spinner had captured his small audience’s attention. Charlie Moon and Scott Parris waited for the narrative’s next line. And continued to wait.

  Until the white cop had had enough. “Well?” Parris growled.

  Reed arched an eyebrow. “Well, what?”

  The cop added a scowl to the growl. “You tell us you remember what’s going to happen, and that’s it—the whole shebang?”

  “Certainly.” The storyteller assumed an innocent expression. “For those present who are not familiar with common literary forms, my nine-word narrative was what is known in the trade as a short story.”

  Moon couldn’t help but grin.

  Parris’s mouth gaped. “Then that’s The End?”

  Reed pursed his lips. “Just so.”

  This wasn’t fair, and Scott Parris’s mild fair-weather scowl was beginning to turn stormy. The cop who’d killed a half-dozen felons and maimed more malefactors than he bothered to recall resorted to the most cruel violence of all—harsh literary criticism: “Well I don’t mean to sound picky, but it’d be nice to hear how a human being could ‘remember’ what hadn’t happened yet.”

  “Yes.” Reed sighed. “I am also curious about that point. But unlike highly proficient yarn-spinners who sit on the courthouse steps seven days a week, whiling away their idle hours squirting tobacco spittle from between their lips and whittling pine knots into curious shapes, I lack the talent to fabricate a five-hundred-page novel right on the spot. However, if I should wake up in the middle of the night with nothing important to occupy my mind, I might give the matter some thought.” He smiled at the lawmen. “Perhaps on some future occasion, as we three chummy hardcases sit around a smoky campfire chewing on rancid buffalo jerky and sipping cowboy java whilst filtering grounds betwixt the comical gaps in our teeth, I will flesh out my story with a few lines of explanatory prose.”

  The disgruntled cop shook his head. What a crappy cop-out. Internally, Parris made that rude sound that is known in vulgar circles as “the raspberry.” He might as well have expressed his opinion aloud.

  Even your hard-boiled storyteller is not without feelings, and Samuel Reed�
��s had every reason to be hurt. The man apparently had skin like a rhinoceros. “Thank you for your kind attention; this little exercise in fiction has been amusing.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “But fun does not pay the bills; business must be attended to. Please excuse me for a few minutes while I do.” With this, their host withdrew from the guest-house bedroom.

  Tending to His Business

  Samuel Reed seated himself at his desk in the parlor, where he busied himself with his computer.

  This activity proved to be both effective and profitable.

  The investor contacted a broker in St. Louis and sold two thousand shares of General Electric (it would tumble two dollars by tomorrow afternoon). He also called a gaming agency in Reno to place modest wagers on several sporting events. A Dublin horse race (Danny Boy’s Luck would win by a nose), a middleweight prizefight in Chicago (Raymond Dymouski would dance in his corner while LeRoy “Sweet Evening Breeze” Washington took a refreshing nap at center ring, a championship bicycle-polo game in Mexico City (the all-star team from Canada would rout the frustrated Colombians), and so on and so forth and et cetera. The entrepreneur did not rest until all his tasks were completed. All told, Reed’s profits during this brief interlude would amount to a mere forty-two thousand dollars and change, but by such modest gains are mighty fortunes made.

  While Professor Sam Reed was tending to his business, he was unaware that Scott Parris had taken up the lookout post at the bedroom window. And that Charlie Moon was standing behind him, peering over his shoulder at the computer display.

  The Ute poker player, who had placed a few bets on ball games in his days, couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to “remember” who’d won the Super Bowl or the World Series before the games were played. An absurd fantasy, of course. And even if a man had an advantage like that, sooner or later his luck would run out. Those hard-eyed, coldhearted fellows who make a living off folks that can’t stay away from fancy card tables, spinning roulette wheels, and noisy slots might not be Rhodes Scholars, but neither were they simpletons. One way or another, they’d be bound to find out about a high roller who consistently won more bets than the Laws of Probability permitted. The fact that Sam Reed was still alive suggested that the wealthy man was either extraordinarily cautious or very lucky. Or both. Charlie Moon’s interest was piqued when Reed opened a commodities-trends Web site. The cattle rancher naturally shared Reed’s interest in a graph that charted the hourly prices of American beef.

  When Samuel Reed left the commodities page to peruse Bloomberg .com, Charlie Moon lost interest in the businessman’s business. He returned to the bedroom, where Scott Parris was at the window, watching a black owl-shadow slip over the moonlit ground like the dark preview of an upcoming nightmare.

  Within a minute, Sam Reed also entered the bedroom. “My business is taken care of.” But it wasn’t. He paused, blinked like a man remembering something. “Oops, almost forgot. There’s one last matter to check on.” He punched several keys on a cell phone, then dialed a preprogrammed number. When the process was complete, the investor made a low whistle. “Just as I expected, the market for beef is leveling off.” He aimed a questioning gaze at the Ute rancher. “By tomorrow, prices will begin to slip. I do hope you have sold your splendid whiteface cattle.”

  Charlie Moon nodded. “And I’m much obliged to you, sir. Without your tip, the Columbine would be in deep trouble.”

  “It was a distinct pleasure to be of assistance.” Reed resumed his seat on the bed.

  The rancher was mildly amused at his host’s duplicity. Sam Reed checked the beef prices on his computer a few minutes ago, so the telephone call was all for show. But to what purpose? I guess he wanted to remind me that I’m indebted to him. Which was probably nothing more than the shadowy side of his host’s human nature. But a second possibility made Moon uneasy. What if the wealthy man had some kind of payback in mind?

  A Woman’s Work

  While Samuel Reed, Scott Parris, and his Ute deputy were preparing for the climax—or anticlimax—to this evening’s minor melodrama, Mrs. Reed—all alone in her upscale home—was not idle. Like her husband, the lady was busy tending to business. Irene was putting her house in order. It is rightly said that a woman’s work is never done, and it would be impractical to provide a detailed list of her various tasks. Suffice it to say that Samuel Reed’s spouse was arranging things. What in particular?

  Oh, this and that.

  A pair of antique coin-silver candlesticks on the purple porphyry mantelpiece.

  A selection of white and yellow rosebuds in a delicate Connecticut cranberry vase.

  Also schedules, without which a household cannot properly function.

  As she arranged, the lady was thinking. About her invariably prompt husband, who was due home at 11 P.M. And about that other, younger man in her life.

  As it happened, only about nine miles away as the owl-shadow flies, that other man was about to receive the most significant communication in a life that had—especially of late—been filled to overflowing with jarring events.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chico Perez Gets the Message

  Times were tough enough already, but what with being unemployed, sleeping in the backseat of his Camaro, and bandaged and aching from Daisy’s violent attack, the former assistant golf-course groundskeeper was—to sum it up in a single syllable—glum. In four more, down in the dumps. And no wonder.

  Chico Perez didn’t have enough cash to fill his gas tank, which had about six gallons sloshing around inside. After three days of dining on bland peanut butter spread onto saltine crackers, he was hungry for something a man could get his teeth into. But, like gasoline, beefsteak wasn’t free, and the hard-up fellow needed to find some way of raising enough ready money to feed himself and drive his classic Chevy a long way from Granite Creek, Colorado. Figuring out how to deal with his cash-flow problem would take some serious thought, which was why Perez was doing what he generally did when he needed to think, which was go for a slow drive after dark in some lonely, out-of-the-way place. Which in this instance was Forest Road 1040 in the mountains above Granite Creek, also known by locals as IRS Road.

  Mulling over the possibilities, Perez scratched at his bandaged head, which itched like a tribe of hyperactive chiggers had set up camp. I could pull off a convenience-store robbery. Any half-wit could manage that, but there was always the risk that some nervous, pimply-face clerk with more testosterone than brains would produce a Saturday-night special and commence to perforate a professional robber’s hide until all the ammo was used up. Maybe I should break into a rich person’s summer house here in the mountains and steal some stuff I could sell. He squinted at the dark, twisting forest lane. Like expensive jewelry and cameras and computers. But, from previous experience as a burglar, Perez realized that his prospects were not altogether promising. Most rich folks didn’t get that way by being dopes, so they don’t leave much in their second homes that’s worth stealing. On top of that, fencing purloined property in a little burg like Granite Creek would be next to impossible. It occurred to Perez that being a thief was not nearly as appealing as some other vocations, like panhandling in Aspen or Taos or rolling drunk college kids in Boulder for the few dollars they had in their pockets. Or maybe I should—

  This latest felonious inspiration was interrupted by the mobile phone clipped to his belt. The distinctively harsh warble of a yellow-headed blackbird—which is not unlike the squeaky creaking of a rusted gate hinge—signaled that he had received a text message. Which was Mrs. Reed’s preferred method of communication. Chico Perez pulled his Chevy to a stop and read the few words. Like other young men who enjoy being right, he was pleased to see Irene’s characteristic salutation and signature.

  HONEY BABE

  IM HOME ALONE

  COME RIGHT OVER

  DONT PHONE

  TXT ME ON MY NEW CELL

  IR

  Perez thumbed in his response:

  OK IM ON
MY WAY

  After making a hard U-turn that startled another young buck (and his equally edgy harem of lady friends), the eager boyfriend was on his way. This is my chance to make a big score. Irene keeps three or four credit cards in her purse, and I bet she’s got a couple of thousand bucks of spare change in the house. Why didn’t I think of this before?

  This was a thousand percent better than knocking off a convenience store or burglarizing somebody’s fifteen-room “cabin.”

  I’ll hold a knife to Irene’s throat until she coughs up all the cash in the house, then I’ll snap the rich bitch’s neck and hit the road.

  Heading downgrade, the young fellow threw back his head and, in a mellow voice that belied his capacity for cruelty, boomed out, “I’ll be comin’ ’round the mountain when I come!”

  Granite Creek’s Top Cop Also Gets the Message

  As the brutal young bully bellowed at the top of his lungs, Samuel Reed was in the guest-house kitchenette, brewing a fresh batch of high-test espresso while happily humming “Let Me Call You Sweetheart.” Charlie Moon had left the comfortable stakeout headquarters to make another round of the Reed property.

  Scott Parris was at the bedroom window, eyeballing the Reed residence. Barely a minute after Chico Perez had received and responded to the suggestive text message, the chief of police received a heads-up from Dispatch on his GCPD mobile phone. The subject was a “relevant communication” from Mrs. Reed. I wonder what she’s up to? His internal query was followed promptly by the text from Irene Reed’s tapped cell phone. As he read it, Parris held his breath. If that ain’t the “all’s clear” signal for the boyfriend to come over and help her commit a homicide, then I’m a monkey’s favorite uncle. Parris was rereading the text message when Perez’s reply scrolled onto the screen. The cop’s mouth formed a silent Wow!