A Dead Man's Tale

by James D. Doss

  There could be no doubt about it now.

  It’s coming down. Mrs. Reed and her boyfriend plan to do away with Sam Reed tonight. Scott Parris set his heavy jaw like a steel vise. But it’s not gonna happen on my watch.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  “For there’s another whose tears will shed.

  For the one who lies in a prairie bed.

  It breaks my heart to think of her now,

  She has curled these locks, she has kissed this brow.”

  Things Get Tolerably Messy

  The tribal investigator was on the rocky ridge overlooking Samuel Reed’s residential property when he took his friend’s call on the GCPD portable radio. A virtual shadow-man among the junipers and pines, the Ute listened to Scott Parris’s terse report of the text-message exchange. “Got it,” Moon said, and thumbed the radio off.

  Without saying a word to Samuel Reed about the shady character who was coming to pay a late-evening call on his wife, Scott Parris remained at the bedroom window.

  Charlie Moon watched a dead-silent Shadowlane Avenue for almost a quarter of an hour before a big-hatted young man in a Dodge pickup older than he was zipped by at about sixty miles per hour. The aged truck rattled at every rusty joint and the right front fender shuddered like it might fall off at any moment. Knox and Slocum will put a big ticket on that cowboy if he don’t slow down. Four minutes later Moon smiled at a shiny Volkswagen convertible with the top down—four laughing teenagers were on their way to town. The happy youngsters left an uneasy quiet in their wake.

  The Indian’s antenna went up when a pair of headlights appeared almost a mile away on Shadowlane. Moon didn’t know how he knew, but he was dead certain that…this’ll be him. Sure enough, as the vehicle came closer, it began to slow. The tribal investigator watched a sleek, low-slung Chevrolet sedan pull to the curb about fifty yards from the Reeds’ driveway. Admiring the profile of the classic Camaro, which had been the automobile of his dreams about twenty years ago, Moon watched the driver emerge and waited to get a better look. The fellow fit the general description of Mrs. Reed’s boyfriend…but it looks like the guy’s head is bandaged. Maybe he’s had an accident. Or…he might’ve been in a fight. The part-time cop smiled. I’d hate to see what the other guy looks like. He thumbed the Talk button on the GCPD radio and pressed the instrument against his ear to hear a corresponding click. “Company coming,” he murmured.

  Parris’s happy anticipation rang in Moon’s ear. “Our guy?”

  “Big fella. About the right age. And he’s driving an old Camaro.”

  “Blond hair down to his shoulders?”

  “I don’t see any hair at all, pard—his head’s either bandaged or he’s wearing a white turban.”

  “Never mind—it’s gotta be Perez.” Parris checked his wristwatch. And right on time. “The boyfriend’s been invited, and he’s showed up. Perez is here to help the lady do a job on her old man.”

  “You sure Reed can’t hear you?”

  “Sure I’m sure.” The cop in the bedroom craned his neck to glance at the entrepreneur in the dimly illuminated parlor, who—apparently oblivious to all else—was busy conducting business. “He’s on the phone again, probably making a deal to buy IBM.”

  As the Ute began making his way down the ridge, he was experiencing a touch of the familiar twisting sensation in his gut. Something’s not quite right about this. “So we just wait to see what happens?”

  “That’s the drill.”

  “Our visitor’s headed through the trees toward the back of the house. No…hold on. He’s stopped now…taking a look around.” Seemingly of their own volition, Moon’s long legs stretched to pick up the pace. “There’s still time for me intercept him before he gets there.”

  “No way, Charlie—we stay with plan A. Let him pass. After Mrs. R. lets him inside, we’ll watch the house and see what develops.”

  I don’t like it. “What’s plan B?”

  “Things get kinky, we’ll improvise.” Apprehension is a communicable illness and Scott Parris was beginning to feel a little feverish. It ain’t like Charlie Moon to get antsy. To make sure his deputy didn’t go off half-cocked and muck things up, he added in a softer whisper, “Come inside and help me keep an eye on Mr. R.—just in case he realizes something’s up and freaks out. We’ll watch the show from here in the pent house.” To terminate the discussion, the chief of police shut his radio off.

  Samuel Reed pocketed his mobile phone as he entered the guest-house bedroom. “So what’s Mr. Moon reporting—someone skulking about outside?”

  He’s got better ears than I figured. “Just some guy driving by.” Parris faked a yawn. “Charlie’s coming inside for a spell.”

  Parris’s cell phone played a few bars of “Golden Slippers.” That’s Dispatch again. He snatched the instrument from his pocket and barked, “What?”

  Dispatcher Clara Tavishuts told him what.

  Parris felt the skin on the back of his neck prickle. “Thanks, Clara.” He broke the connection just as Charlie Moon opened the parlor door and stepped inside. As the Ute’s lanky form loomed in the bedroom, the chief of police addressed both men. “Mrs. Reed has just placed a 911 emergency call. She claims somebody is attempting to break into the rear entrance of her home.” Parris took another look at the Reed’s back door. And there’s nobody there.

  Samuel Reed received this piece of news with a cock of his head. “That’s rather peculiar, don’t you think? I mean—there’s obviously no burglar about or you fellows would have spotted him.” The husband rolled his owlish eyes. “Ever since her supposed encounter with the so-called Crowbar Burglar, Irene has been nervous about being home alone. My wife must be hearing things.”

  Moon and Parris exchanged edgy looks. And thought identical thoughts.

  It’s a long time before eleven o’clock. Something’s gone wrong.

  Samuel Reed resumed his pacing and began humming another old tune.

  Alerted by a slight jerk of his friend’s head, Moon strode to the window. Both lawmen watched Chico Perez’s bulky form approach the back door of the physicist’s home. The man with the bandaged head did not bother to knock. He fished a key out of his pocket, unlocked and opened the door—and stepped into that final darkness.

  A pair of pistol shots popped like firecrackers.

  Chico Perez roared like a gored bull.

  Simultaneous with Irene’s shrill scream—two more shots.

  As the wounded man charged the woman, Charlie Moon was racing down the guest-house stairway four steps at a time. Scott Parris was one stride behind.

  As Perez got his right hand on Irene’s throat, the Ute was on a dead run to the Reed residence.

  His .38 snub-nosed revolver ready to conduct serious business, a huffing-puffing Parris was coming on like a steam locomotive—but not quite so close now to the rangy rancher.

  What the lawmen found inside was more or less what they had expected.

  With several bullet holes in his abdomen, Perez was flat on his back, spitting cherry-red blood that dribbled along his chin and onto his neck. “Crazy bitch!” He coughed and gurgled. “She’s gut-shot me—I’m done for.” The dying man waved his hand in front of his eyes…as if to ward off some horrific vision that only he could see. “No—” he rasped, “stay away from me!”

  Crumpled on the floor like a discarded rag doll, her pearl-handled Browning .32-caliber automatic death-gripped in her right hand—Irene Reed was likewise done for. Perez had snapped her lovely neck.

  The summoned ambulance arrived in seven minutes flat. As her two co-workers were loading the cursing, blood-soaked man into the white Ford van, the tight-lipped EMT consulted her wristwatch and pronounced the adult Caucasian female dead at 10:14 P.M.

  While sirens screamed to clear the way to Snyder Memorial Hospital, Chico Perez groaned and moaned away his spirit. He expired as the anxious EMTs rolled the stainless-steel gurney into the ER.

  Minutes later, one of the emergency med
ical technicians who had tended to the wounded man while the ambulance rolled along at seventy-plus miles per hour complained of a headache and knocked off early from his customary 8 P.M. to 8 A.M. shift. The seasoned professional did not withdraw to his lonely basement apartment, wash down a couple of aspirins with ten-dollar-a-liter red wine, and hit the sack. He went to his mother’s house, woke the old lady up, and told her about the homicide and how he’d had lots of company on the way to the hospital. No less than a half-dozen “unauthorized passengers” had gone along for the ride, all eager to witness the expiration of the fatally wounded man.

  Momma reached out to pat his hand. “Who were they, Sonny?”

  “They was all women, Ma—young women.” The EMT cleared his throat and, for the first time since he’d walked through the front door—looked his mother straight in the eye. “Dead young women.”

  “Oh, my!”

  That should have been sufficient.

  But when Sonny turned his face away, his mother heard him say, “One of ’em was that dead lady we found on the floor beside the big guy—the one that shot him.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  A Brief Study in Contrasts

  The scenes at the Reed residence and at Charlie Moon’s home could hardly have been more dissimilar.

  At the very instant when Irene Reed was perforating Chico Perez’s hide with lead slugs, the women in Mr. Moon’s life were cleaning off the supper table in the Columbine headquarters dining room.

  As the emergency medical technician pronounced Irene Reed dead, Daisy Perika yawned a good-night to Sarah Frank, toddled down the hallway to enter her bedroom, closed the door, turned off the lights, crawled under the covers and—No.

  What’s this?

  Daisy did switch the lights off, but the fragile old soul never made it to her bed to crawl under the covers.

  Something is definitely amiss.

  The Prone Figure

  A few minutes later, as Sarah slips under a colorful Amish quilt in the adjacent bedroom, Charlie Moon’s aunt is lying on the floor, in a narrow space between her bed and the oak-paneled wall. She is not moving a muscle.

  Is Daisy Perika dead? It would appear so. Perhaps the aged woman has succumbed to a heart attack or stroke. Very sad. We can comfort ourselves with the thought that she went quickly.

  But wait. Cup your ear. Do you hear that feeble thumpity-thump? Daisy’s heart still pumps.

  Is she merely unconscious? Quite the contrary.

  The tribal elder is wide awake and extraordinarily alert. She listens.

  Listens to what?

  Here is a hint: the side of Daisy Perika’s head rests on a cold metal vent.

  This isolated factoid does not provide sufficient illumination to a murky situation? What one wants is a detailed elaboration?

  Very well. Here it is: ducts are commonly installed underneath floors to provide pathways for heated air to flow from the furnace. When not serving that essential but rather noisy function, these conduits are excellent transmitters of sound. Especially between adjacent rooms.

  Sly Old Fox

  Daisy Perika waited until all she could hear from the bedroom next door was a rhythmic breathing, not unlike the peaceful sigh of a Hawaiian surf. Convinced that Sarah must be fast asleep, the crafty old woman pulled a canvas grocery bag from under her bed. After turning the floor lamp on, she emptied the fabric sack and placed her collection of Chico Perez memorabilia on the cedar chest of drawers. This was not going to be an easy task. Perez’s wallet had no sentimental value, but parting with his more personal property would be particularly painful. For the longest time, Daisy shifted her wistful gaze back and forth between the trophies. The more presentable of the prizes was tastefully displayed in a gallon Ziploc bag, and the others (a matched pair) were sealed in a mayonnaise jar half filled with alcohol. Giving this stuff up will be like cutting off the fingers on my right hand, but if I get caught with it I’ll end up in prison sleeping on a rickety little cot with a smelly mattress that’s got more fleas and bedbugs than stuffing. And that was just for starters. All I’ll have to eat will be moldy month-old bread and dirty water from a rusty bucket. The potential convict could not bear even to think about the toilet facilities.

  Daisy had no choice but to dispose of her trophies straightaway. I’ll hide them someplace where nobody’ll ever think of looking. The wallet would also have to go, but not before she helped herself to Perez’s cash money. It’s not like he needs it anymore.

  Daisy would not learn until tomorrow that Chico Perez had survived her violent walking-stick assault—only to be shot to death by Irene Reed. As she was removing the greenbacks from the stolen wallet, the pickpocket realized that something was concealed in a space under the slot where Perez kept his Visa card, Colorado driver’s license, and Social Security card. Hoping to discover something of monetary interest in this hiding place, Daisy proceeded to investigate.

  Sadly, there was no secret stash of folded money.

  What she did find was another driver’s license, a second Social Security card, and a snapshot of a smiling woman. Probably another one of his married girlfriends. Daisy squinted at the picture. I’m sure I’ve seen the face before, but I can’t remember where or when. She examined the expired driver’s license and the tattered old Social Security card. Neither had been issued to Chico Perez, but the face in the photo on the out-of-state license was a dead ringer for the man Daisy had assaulted with her oak walking stick—except for one detail. In this older picture, the young man’s long hair was straight, and black as chimney soot. But it’s Perez, all right. The name on the concealed ID was different—and as hauntingly familiar as the woman’s face in the photograph. Now where’ve I heard that name before? As soon as Daisy posed the question, the recollection bubbled up from the shadowy depths of her memory.

  So that’s who Perez really was.

  It was indeed a small world, and now Daisy understood the pitukupf’s sinister warning. It wasn’t Lyle Thoms the little runt was warning me about—it was this Perez devil. This revelation buoyed her spirits almost as much as pocketing the bad man’s money. Now I’m double-glad the rascal’s dead!

  But, intriguing as this new twist was, it did nothing to alleviate the predicament Daisy found herself in. Despite the fact that Perez had it coming, the incriminating evidence of her noteworthy accomplishment still must be concealed—which vexed the old soul no end. The tribal elder found a dusty shoe box in her bedroom closet and removed a pair of shiny black shoes she hadn’t worn since attending a cousin’s funeral. I’ll put everything in this box and then drop it into that old dry well behind the blacksmith’s shop.

  A good start. But it is terribly hard to discard testimonials to one’s valiant deeds.

  It is easy to compromise.

  Daisy desperately needed some small memento to remember her adventure by. I know what I’ll do—I’ll hold on to the woman’s picture; nobody could prove I took that from Perez. This decision made, she slipped the snapshot into her purse and put the wallet with both sets of ID and the other evidence of her righteous assault into the shoe box. She wrapped the cardboard container in brown paper and secured the parcel with Scotch tape and two yards of white cotton twine.

  There, that looks nice. So nice that…it seems like such a shame to toss it in a well. A melancholy sigh. But I can’t think of anything else to do….

  Yes she could!

  Daisy had experienced one of those delightful inspirations that—if she had been a 1950s cartoon character like petite Minnie Mouse or Li’l Abner’s pipe-smoking mammy—a hundred-watt light bulb would have flashed on above her head. And the more the plotter turned the notion over and looked at it from this way and that, the more she liked it. Inordinately pleased with herself, Daisy Perika cackled wickedly.

  Had a sensitive soul such as Sarah Frank heard the cackle, she might have characterized it as insanely wicked. As it happened, the eighteen-year-old girl in the adjacent bedroom did hear the tribal el
der’s guttural chuckle. Sort of. While she was asleep.

  Sarah awakened from a pleasant dream with a startled expression on her face. She sat up in bed wondering what the matter was. Came up with a blank. The girl shuddered and hugged her knees. Oh—I feel like something awful has just happened! But (she assured herself) that was silly. Nothing’s wrong.

  And so the innocent laid her head back onto a billowy feather pillow, pulled the handsome quilt up to her chin, and yawned. Within a few heartbeats she was fast asleep.

  It was sheer coincidence that the cinematic dream Sarah drifted into was a big-budget production starring Aunt Daisy.

  It was pure chance that the vicious old woman was wearing a bloody butcher’s apron.

  And mere happenstance that the tribal elder—armed with an equally bloody butcher knife—was carving up a sizable side of meat.

  Which wasn’t beef.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  A Long Night’s Work

  Charlie Moon did what he could to assist his friend.

  Scott Parris knew he’d messed up big-time and got ready to take his lumps. He set his square jaw, sucked in his gut, and got right at the awkward duty of briefing a half-dozen astonished GCPD cops and a couple of hard-eyed state-police officers on the clandestine stakeout. Parris did not mention the bet he’d made that he could keep Sam Reed alive until June 5, or the fact that the wealthy man had paid for the dubious services rendered by his bodyguards. There was no concealing the fact that the double homicide had occurred while the chief of police and his Indian friend were close enough to toss a rock at Chico Perez.