Snake Dreams

by James D. Doss

  The women heard a roar, turned to see a Jeep lurch out of a vacant lot near the GC Propane Company storage yard. It bounced over the curb and almost flipped over as the driver made a hard left turn. The sturdy vehicle righted itself with a thud and sped away straddling the white center line.

  “Well,” said Miss Muntz. “This used to be such a peaceful neighborhood.”

  The neighbor (who had forgotten where she was going) executed a quick U-turn and drove back home.

  After watching the young woman depart, the landlady hurried up to Wetzel’s front door, which was open. She went through the parlor, down the hallway, and into the kitchen, where she paused to inspect these familiar surroundings. Her Felix the Cat clock tick-tocked on the wall over the refrigerator. Even more arresting were familiar scents, some quite pleasant to the senses: the potted African violets in the south windows. Pine-Sol. The lingering aroma of an uneaten supper. But there was another, quite unpleasant odor. Fresh blood.

  AS THE neighbor pulled into her driveway and braked her minivan to a stop, she yanked a cell phone from her purse, punched in 911. “Hello, this is Hazel Burch, 220 Aspen Loop. I believe I’ve just been a witness to a crime and I want to tell you what I saw while it’s still fresh in my mind. . . .”

  MISS MUNTZ found Hermann Wetzel crumpled at the top of the basement stairs, his shirt soaked with blood. The man had a 9-mm automatic pistol in his hand, an astonished expression on his homely face.

  She knelt to make a quick examination. His pupils, which were completely dilated, reminded the elderly lady of Little Orphan Annie. He’s not breathing. She pressed a finger under his jawbone. And there’s no pulse.

  Diagnosis: The spirit had departed.

  The sensible landlady, who had been so reckless in entering a house where shots had been fired, was beginning to feel rather uneasy. Also distinctly queasy. Oh, I mustn’t throw up on the carpet . . . it was cleaned just last month! She hurried back into the kitchen, steadied herself on the sink. It would be indelicate, also inappropriate, to describe what occurred during the next half minute. Suffice it to say that after completing her business, Miss Muntz was eager to be elsewhere.

  Out the Wetzel front door she went, down the driveway, across Beechwood Road, and into the safety of her cozy home. Perspiration beading on her forehead, she paused to lean against the inside of her front door and gasp for breath, only to be assaulted by a wave of nauseating dizziness. Oh, dear—I hope I don’t faint. It became apparent that hope would not get the job done; consciousness began to slip away. The determined old soul clenched her teeth. I shall not faint. Miss M called upon resources from deep within. I simply refuse to!

  And she did not.

  Nineteen

  Where Is a Cop When You Need One?

  Or two. Cops, that is. In this instance, both of them were at a birthday party in Granite Creek’s classiest hotel, having a grand old time. The Southern Ute Buffalo Drummers, the White River Gourd Dancers, a barrel-chested Taos Pueblo singer with a baritone that an Arkansas auctioneer would have envied—all were going at it with great gusto. Picture four serious men seated around a rawhide drum large enough to float Huck Finn and his friend Tom Sawyer down the old Mississippi with sufficient luggage for a three-week stay. One is tempted to add that ol’ Jim could have come along for the ride, but that would be an unwarranted exaggeration, and besides, Jim had had quite enough of going “down de ribber,” thank you very much. But it sure was a dandy drum, and when one of the foursome hit it a good lick with his big knobby drumstick, the BOOM! reverberated not only in the listener’s head but in his rib cage as well. Add to this the rattling of piñon nuts in long-neck gourds and the voice of the stony-faced crooner who wailed a tale (about a girl who married a badger) in a Tewa dialect that no one present but himself could understand, and you get some notion of the general commotion. What a great party!

  Not that officer Eddie Knox, who was an old grump, couldn’t find something or other to grouse about. Like his beverage. Our man in blue was sipping at something insipid, wishing it were a cold brew, but what could you do when the birthday celebration was for a sixteen-year-old girl? Drink iced tea, that’s what.

  E. C. “Piggy” Slocum, Knox’s five-foot-five, 210-pound partner, was sloshing down one cup of coffee after another, munching Dolly Bushman’s homemade oatmeal-raisin-chocolate-chip-macadamia-nut cookies by the handful, all the while eyeing the huge birthday cake with gluttonous intensity.

  The radio on Knox’s belt made a bleeping sound, which was barely audible above the drum beats, gourd rattles, and the song about how Mr. Badger ate his bride’s mother. No. Hold on. Tewa is a difficult language and there is some dispute about the translation—it may be that the toothy groom devoured his new wife’s beaded moccasins. Whichever it was, this culinary indiscretion got the marriage off in a bad direction.

  The senior partner put the radio to his ear, barked, “Knox here.”

  Clara Tavishuts advised the irritable cop that she was sorry to spoil the party for him and Slocum, but—“Officers Martin and Lopez are dealing with a family dispute and I have two callers who report suspicious activity at 750 Beechwood Road, residence of a Mr. Hermann Wetzel. A Miss Muntz at 751 Beechwood reports possible gunshots.”

  Knox groaned. It’ll be some old rattletrap that backfired. He elbowed Slocum, causing his partner to spill half a cup of coffee onto his lap, which made Piggy let out a shrill yelp, which went unheard by the other guests seated at Sarah’s table. Knox shouted into the chubby man’s ear, “We got a call, Pig.”

  Slocum made a two-handed grab at the cookie plate, got a half dozen of Dolly Bushman’s finest in his mitts.

  And off they went, lickety-split, no one taking any interest in their departure except Chief of Police Scott Parris and Charlie Moon, who gave his best friend a questioning look. Parris shrugged, shook his head at what he considered to be a pair of latter-day Keystone Kops. Knox treated every response, whether to rescue a treed cat or soothe a marital spat, as if he’d been called upon to protect the town from a horde of crazed, armed-to-the-teeth terrorists. Slocum, a placid, dim-bulb sort, was mainly along for the ride.

  Parris’s judgment was unduly harsh. True, Eddie Knox was more than a wee bit eccentric, and also had a tendency toward drama. But Knox was also an officer with uncommonly reliable instincts and he was absolutely fearless. E. C. Slocum was not the brightest policeman on the force, but “Piggy” rarely missed a day’s work, never complained about an unpleasant assignment, and was blessed with a bright outlook on life and perpetual good humor. And though he was always afraid of getting hurt, when push did come to shove, Slocum would not back down from a knock-down, drag-out fight—and he would never let his partner down no matter what.

  What about tonight?

  Officers Knox and Slocum arrived at the scene with emergency lights flashing, dual sirens wailing, tires squealing as their unit skidded to a stop. Miss Muntz hurried out to the curb to provide a breathless report about finding her tenant’s dead body inside her rental property. Piggy immediately called for an ambulance. They entered the residence at 750 Beechwood Road with sidearms drawn, found Hermann Wetzel’s bloody corpse, and called dispatch to request all available officers on the spot ASAP and assistance from the state police in setting up roadblocks along all major exits from Granite Creek. All this in two minutes flat. And that was that.

  Not bad for a couple of “Keystone Kops.”

  WHEN SCOTT Parris got the call from dispatch, gourds were still rattling, the big drum was still booming, the Taos Pueblo singer was still singing—now a humorous birthday song, in flawless English. The chief of police left the ballroom for the lobby, where the sound was merely a deafening roar such as would be caused by two speeding freight trains colliding head-on. Upon hearing the grim news, he silently mouthed the obligatory two-word expletive, then advised Clara Tavishuts that he’d be on the spot in six minutes. Made it in five and twenty seconds.

  Like Knox and Slocum before him, Par
ris’s departure had gone almost unnoticed. Those who did notice were Charlie Moon and FBI Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague.

  An inveterate gambler, the tribal investigator figured the odds were thirty to one that blood had been spilled. Four to one it was an auto accident, most likely on one of the steep, winding mountain roads that spiraled out of town. Then there was the long shot—it might be a homicide. Every so often, some crazed drunk would put a knife between a drinking buddy’s ribs or a disgruntled wife would club her cheating husband with whatever happened to be close at hand, such as a cast-iron skillet, baseball bat, or unabridged dictionary. But whatever it is that’s got Scott all red-faced, it’s none of my business. Moon caught Sarah’s eye and smiled at the little girl who, it seemed, had grown up all at once and become a little woman. A pretty little woman.

  Lila Mae, who had been cajoled into accepting a seat at the birthday girl’s table, was sitting as close beside Mr. Moon as possible. She put her hand in his.

  The Ute turned the bright light of his smile upon the good-looking lady.

  At that moment, another guest approached the guest of honor’s table. Nancy Yazzi.

  She gave Sarah a big hug and a box of chocolates.

  “Oh,” Sarah shrieked, “I didn’t know you were here!”

  “I told you I was going to a dance tonight.” Nancy explained that she had been sitting in a far corner, practically behind a potted rubber plant. She pouted her pretty lips. “I had to lean sideways to see the bandstand.”

  The birthday girl insisted that her friend take a seat beside her.

  Which Nancy did.

  Shall this day’s wonders never cease?

  Not for at least an hour or two. Or midnight, at the latest.

  Twenty

  The Fugitive

  As he listened to the alarming police reports on his portable scanner, Jake Harper realized that he was in a serious fix—he’d been seen hoofing it from the scene of a murder. And the cops know what kind of car I’m driving!

  Nancy Yazzi’s desperate boyfriend was fueled by a volatile mix of animal instinct and brutish determination. I gotta hole up somewhere till this thing blows over. The cops pick me up, I’m toast. As he turned onto Forest Road 1040 (known by the locals as IRS Road) and the Jeep leaped and lurched over the bumps and ruts, the wild-eyed man began to experience something akin to Miss Muntz’s recent affliction. Nausea. Mrs. Harper’s son came as near to praying as he ever had during his thirty-seven years: Please . . . please . . . don’t let me puke all over myself. The desperate sinner had no idea to Whom he was addressing this urgent plea. Even so, the nausea gradually diminished. Probably because he had slowed down. Or perhaps his prayer had been heard and answered.

  At any moment, somewhere a sparrow falleth.

  The spunky little Jeep bumpity-bumped its way along IRS Road, passing a few year-round residences whose windows glowed with friendly illumination, a barn or two nestled in pastures that were half shrouded in darkness. Over the mountains, thunder rumbled—a cold rain began to pelt the dirty windshield. The unnerved driver could not remember where the wiper control was, fumbled and cursed until he found it, and watched with relief as the blades swiped away blotchy splotches of wetness. During the next mile or so, there was no sign of a dwelling. Finally, at almost two thousand feet above the valley where the lights of Granite Creek were spread out like a scattering of rhinestones on a party skirt, a sprightly display of lightning tap-danced along the mountainside—illuminating the dark landscape just long enough for Harper to see a hand-painted wooden sign (ROGER’S ROOST) and a two-level log home about fifty yards off the road. Following the heavenly fire-works, there was a thunderous applause as the dark curtain fell. Even as the stage was swallowed up in night, the essential impressions registered in his mind. I didn’t seen no car in the driveway. And there’s no lights in the house. Conclusion: There’s nobody home. He gave the steering wheel a quick twist, sped along a graveled driveway, braking to a skidding stop just in time to avoid ramming the garage. He cut the ignition, switched off the headlights, found a small flashlight in the glove compartment, and got out to tug at the garage-door handle.

  Locked, of course.

  He abandoned the garage, found another door on the lower level, tried the knob. Also locked. Not a problem. The resourceful fellow picked up one of several ornamental cement blocks that had been arranged around a small, shriveled-up flower garden, smashed the door glass, reached inside to find the knob, gave it a turn, and let himself in.

  When Harper switched on the lights he found himself in what is commonly known as a walk-in basement. This one had walnut wall paneling, acoustic ceiling panels with track lighting, and vinyl flooring that appeared to have been waxed recently. The furnishings included a sagging gray couch, a pair of bunk beds with colorful quilts (prancing pinto ponies rampant on a field of lime-green grass), and a massive 1970s-era RCA color television. Mounted on the walls were hockey sticks, tennis racquets, miscellaneous fishing equipment, and a striped bass that (if you included the spikes on its tail) was almost a yard long. He entered the attached garage, switched on the lights, and blinked at an almost-new Ford Escape. Now ain’t that a nice piece of luck. He unlatched the garage door, drove his Jeep into the vacant space, and slammed the door down again.

  This essential task accomplished, he returned to the kids’ room, turned off the lights, and ascended the stairs to a spacious kitchen that was provided with stainless steel appliances and polished granite countertops. But, like Miss Muntz, the bearish fellow was not in the mood for food. What he required was liquid refreshment, and he found what he longed for in the tastefully appointed parlor, which was equipped with a well-stocked bar. Within half an hour, Jake Harper had drunk himself into a stupor. He stumbled over to a downy-soft couch, flopped onto it, and drifted off to a deep, dreamless sleep.

  If he’d had the least inkling of how the local authorities were attempting to close the net around him, Mr. Harper might not have slept at all.

  For just one example:

  A steely-eyed forest official was motoring along the mountain road, looking for Hermann Wetzel’s murderer. His spiffy green pickup was fitted with an umpteen-candlepower searchlight, which he was using to good effect. But when he slowed to illuminate Rogers’ Roost, the man under the Smokey Bear hat did not notice the broken glass on the lower level.

  Jake’s good luck was almost uncanny.

  Twenty-One

  The Witness

  As he entered the elderly lady’s immaculate parlor, Scott Parris was glad that he had remembered to wipe his boots on the doormat. He removed his venerable felt hat. “Mrs. Muntz, I realize you’ve—”

  “Miss Muntz, if you please.” She took the hat, placed it on a maple end table.

  “Uh . . . right.” The chief of police grinned, restarted his speech. “I realize you’ve had a very stressful experience and I imagine you’d rather not be bothered right now. But after just an hour or two, witnesses tend to forget a lot of what they’ve seen and heard, so I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened across the street this evening.” He produced a small notebook and ballpoint pen. “First of all, did Mr. Wetzel live alone?”

  “No. His stepdaughter shared the house with him. Which reminds me—” Miss Muntz glanced at a brass clock on the mantelpiece. “Oh my goodness!” She raised both palms, as if to push him away. “I’m sorry, but your inquiry will have to wait.”

  Parris cocked his head. “Wait for what?”

  “I have an urgent errand to run.” She smiled at the policeman’s bemused expression. “You see, I promised to pick up Mr. Wetzel’s stepdaughter at nine forty-five P.M., and”—she consulted her archaic Lady Elgin wristwatch—“it is now nine twenty-eight. I shall barely have time to get there.” Her expression was suddenly very sober. “Which means that I must prepare myself to tell her what has happened.” And it will be extremely difficult.

  The cop shook his head. “No you won’t. I’ll see that the young
lady is notified.” But this was a new wrinkle. “How old is this stepdaughter?”

  “Seventeen. Very close to eighteen, I believe.”

  He wrote this down. “Her name?”

  “Nancy. Nancy Yazzi.” She spelled the surname.

  After he jotted this information in his notebook, Parris looked through the front window at a gay display of flashing red-and-blue lights. “Just Mr. Wetzel and his stepdaughter occupied your rental property?”

  “That is correct. I understand that the girl’s mother left some time ago.” Miss Muntz had heard rumors about Chiquita Yazzi running off with another man, but she would not repeat such distasteful gossip.

  “Where are you supposed to pick up Miss Yazzi?”

  “The Silver Mountain Hotel.” The landlady glanced at her watch. “She’s attending a dance.”

  Holy smoke. “Is she at Sarah Frank’s birthday party?”

  “Why, yes.” However did he know that? “Nancy was invited about a week ago, by the gentleman who was organizing the event.”

  “Charlie Moon?”

  “I believe that was the name Nancy mentioned.” An amused smile. “You are certainly well-informed.”

  “Yes ma’am.” Basking in the compliment, Parris returned the smile. “Hold on while I make a quick call.” He fumbled for the phone in his jacket pocket, selected the programmed number for his Ute friend.

  Charlie Moon answered after two rings, his deep voice almost drowned out by the happy pandemonium. “What’s up, pard?”

  “Uh, you know a guest of Sarah’s—” Parris squinted at the scrawl in his notebook. I got to learn to write so I can read what I wrote. “Nancy . . . uh . . . Yoxxi?”