“That’s Lila Mae McTeague.”
It took all of the Ute woman’s willpower, but she managed to get the words past her teeth: “Even if McPig ain’t an Indian, she might still make you a halfway decent wife.”
“I’m sure Miss McTeague would appreciate the ringing endorsement. If she happens to propose, I’ll keep your approval in mind.”
“Hah!” Hard as Daisy tried, that was all she could think of to say.
Charlie Moon pointed a Phillips screwdriver at the television. “I don’t believe I can fix that thing.”
“Well I never thought you could.” She glared at her victim. “If you was a good nephew, you wouldn’t let me limp along with that old piece of junk—you’d bring me a brand-new television out here.” Her mouth twisted into a wicked smile. “One with a remote control and a great big screen.”
14
His Quiet Time
He was all decked out in a captain’s hat, navy blue seaman’s jacket, white linen slacks with thin red stripes down the sides, and white canvas deck shoes. If his face had not been so long, Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe would have cut quite a jaunty figure. The owner of Sweet Solitude wore the hollow-eyed look of a wartime sailor about to depart for an unknown, unfriendly port. As if harboring some awful premonition, he gazed at his young wife with a terrible intensity. “Well, I suppose it’s about time I got under way.”
She nodded.
He reached out, gently caressed her golden tresses. “I’ll miss you.”
Wincing slightly at his touch, Pansy turned to look across Moccasin Lake, where a dense forest of willows concealed the northern shore. “I’ll be all right.” She chewed on her lower lip. “When’ll you be back?”
“Oh, about a week.” Blinkoe rubbed at the finger where the ring set with the heart-shaped ruby glistened in the late afternoon sunlight. “Maybe ten days.” He stared at the woman until her beauty made him ache, then followed her gaze to the lake. “You know how it is with me. At least once a year, I have to have some quiet time.”
“Yes,” she said. “I understand.” And so she did.
A pair of blue-black tree swallows swooped low, glided by like ghostly afterthoughts.
Pansy examined a painted fingernail. It had a tiny crack. “Will you call me while you’re out on the lake?” Sometimes when he was away, he didn’t call for days on end.
“Sure. When I’m in the mood, I’ll check in.” He gave her a searching look. “Will you be here in the evenings?”
She looked up quickly. “Where else would I be?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just thought you might go into town with your brother.” He frowned at Clayton Crowe’s apartment over the garage. Something moved at the window. So my brother-in-law is up and about. The lazy, good-for-nothing bastard! “You two could have a nice dinner at Corky’s Barbecue. Or maybe take in a movie at the Lido.”
“I don’t know—Clayton don’t like to go out much.” She bit at the offending fingernail. “I may go to town by myself. If you call and I’m not here, just leave me a message on the machine.” She shot him a brittle look. “I’ll get back to you—when I’m in the mood.”
“Look, honey-bun…” He started to reach for her with both hands.
Pansy had already turned, was walking way. Without glancing over her shoulder, she said, “Hope you don’t get too lonesome out there.”
M. W. Blinkoe stared as his shapely wife made her alluring way up the winding flagstone path. He watched the door close behind her, waited for her face to appear at a window. It did not.
He boarded the luxurious houseboat, climbed the metal stairway, started up the twin Mercury engines. After checking the gauges, he returned to the lower deck, untied the nylon rope hitched to the dock post, cast off for an uncertain destination.
The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers’ dam was nineteen miles west of the Blinkoe residence. At sunset, the captain of Sweet Solitude was almost halfway there. He pulled closer to the northern shore, within a hundred yards of a jutting sandstone formation known as Whiskey Point. He shut down the engines, dropped anchor.
Blinkoe pottered around the immaculate galley until he had made himself a Polish-ham sandwich on pumpernickel rye, heated up a helping of Bear Creek Cheddar-Potato Soup. He placed the sandwich on a flowered china plate, ladled the soup into a matching bowl. After his supper, he checked his nine-thousand-dollar Bern Aristocrat wristwatch. Not quite nine P.M. He cleaned off the dinette table, turned on the CD player, listened to a splendid rendition of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden while watching the moonlit ripples on the water. Finally, he broke out a new deck of cards, tested his wits at a lonely game of solitaire. Blinkoe toyed around with Joker Canfield, Mother’s Klondike, Westcliff. Nothing worked; the cards stubbornly refused to cooperate. The disgruntled man made a stab at Devil’s Despair. The game was aptly named. He pushed the recalcitrant deck aside, stared at the window, saw only a sad-faced reflection. What is to become of me?
Instantly, he felt a sharp pain in his lower back, near his left kidney. Blinkoe ground his teeth. “I wish you would not do that!” A pause. “I have a lot to think about—now please don’t pester me.” He listened intently, nodded at the amorphous shadow that had materialized. “Yes, of course I realize we’re in this together. But you’re certainly not helping the situation. Just this once, trust me.” Gradually, the ache subsided. As it did, the Shadow Man faded into nothingness.
Once the heavy part of midnight had settled onto the lake, it was so quiet that Blinkoe could hear his heart thumping and pumping. I’d give a thousand bucks to have somebody here to play me just one hand of poker. He could think of only one thing to do. The cardsharp returned to solitaire, where he would sink to that most degrading of behaviors—cheating himself.
Long after his normal bedtime, Blinkoe was still wide awake. Still cheating. He did not hear the new sound on the lake—under the sigh and whisper of waters breaking on the shore, it was virtually undetectable.
Silent as an ebony swan, the sooty-tinted rubber boat skimmed across the water. The two men in the small craft were dressed in flat black nylon jumpsuits. They did not speak, carried no identification. But on his webbed belt, each wore a canvas-holstered 9-mm automatic pistol and a sheath knife with a four-inch ceramic blade. Along with other essential tools of their trade, a Czech-made submachine gun was packed in a waterproof case. The professionals boarded the Sweet Solitude without the least notice from the captain of the vessel. He was unaware of the visitors until one of them touched him on the neck.
Blinkoe yelped, flung his cards across the deck.
Less than an hour later, a pair of men paddled the rubber boat back toward Whiskey Point. Only seconds after they stepped ashore, a violent explosion lifted the houseboat off the surface of Moccasin Lake. A few thousand fragments—including bits and pieces of the unfortunate occupant of the luxury craft—were scattered over the waters. For several minutes, a greasy scum of diesel fuel and rubbish burned on the surface of the lake.
Quite soon, all was peaceful again. Serenely silent.
Until a famished cutthroat trout broke the surface, took a tasty chunk of flesh.
Two days later
Since she had occupied the small office in Granite Creek, one event in Lila Mae McTeague’s life had been quite predictable. If she was not at her desk, she made the call on her cell phone at 3:58 P.M. If she did not, the Man would call her office telephone precisely two minutes later. Today she was in the office. At 3:59 P.M., the FBI special agent took a small key from her purse, opened the desk drawer where the cipher telephone was concealed. At 3:59:30, the elegant lady removed a pearl earring from her right ear. She watched the second hand rotate around the face of the Seth Thomas clock. At two seconds before four o’clock, the telephone buzzed. She picked up the receiver. “McTeague here.”
The assistant special agent in charge of the Denver Field Office requested that she deliver her daily briefing.
From previous experience with the assistant SAC,
McTeague understood that “briefing” implied brief. “I had a late lunch with Chief of Police Scott Parris. He reports that state and local police and Lake Patrol Authority have recovered a considerable amount of wreckage from Moccasin Lake. Condition of the fragments suggests a powerful explosion, followed by a fire. Working hypothesis is that someone placed a packet of HE on board prior to departure from the Blinkoe dock. The detonator could have been fired by remote radio control, or by an attached timer. I think it more likely that someone boarded the vessel while it was at anchor and—”
The Denver SAC interrupted with a pointed question.
“Yes sir. Even though no remains have been recovered, Dr. Blinkoe is presumed dead. In the event human tissue should be found, the state police will submit samples for DNA analysis, but Dr. Blinkoe has no known living relatives.” A pause. “Yes sir, that is correct—the presumed victim was an orphan. The other possibility would be to examine his medical history, determine whether there are any extant tissue samples to compare to—” She grimaced at the harsh voice in her ear, nodded at the invisible supervisor. “Yes sir. I realize that you know that. I merely intended to—” Another nod. “Yes sir. Good-bye, sir.” Special Agent McTeague returned the headset to the cradle, slammed her desk drawer shut. Crabby old goat!
15
Beginner’s Luck
The plump, middle-aged woman pried off the plastic lid—realized she had opened a serious can of worms. Dottie Neffick made a face at the writhing mass of night crawlers. That is so icky! She turned to the man beside her. “Pat, I just can’t do this.”
Patrick scowled at his wife, snatched up the coffee can, grabbed at her fishing line, deftly impaled a medium-size worm onto the barbed hook. “There,” he grumbled. “Now see if you can cast it out by that big boulder.” He added in a weary tone: “And try not to get it snagged on that log again.”
Her face flushed with enthusiasm, Dottie made a surprisingly elegant overhead cast. Snagged it on the log. “Oh, dear.” She giggled. “If I’d tried to do that, I bet I couldn’t have—not in a month of Sundays.”
Fresh out of snorts and scowls, Patrick stoically cut the line with his pocket knife, attached another hook and sinker, baited the line with a second worm.
His wife smiled. “Thank you, dear.”
This time, he made the cast. That should be a good spot. For a moment, the plastic bobber lay on its side, then jerked upright as the lead sinker settled out at four feet. He returned the brand-new rod and spinning reel to the woman. “Now sit still—and watch the cork.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What cork?”
“The float. When I was a boy, we used bottle corks. So I still call ’em corks.” If that’s okay with you.
“Oh—d’you mean that little plastic ball-thingy?”
The experienced fisherman groaned. I should’ve left her at home.
Dottie was not perturbed by his silence. She watched the “cork.” After a few seconds she tightened her grip on the rod. “Oh, Pat, look—it’s moving! Should I pull it in?”
“That’s just the current. Don’t you do nothin’ unless the cork goes under. Then you give it a good jerk. That’s to set the hook.” These women, you can’t learn ’em nothin’ ’bout fishing, so I don’t know why I even try.
“This is so exciting.” She shuddered with the delectable joy of the experience. “I don’t know why I never did this before. From now on, every time you go fishing, I’m coming along.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered. A green fly buzzed by, followed by and by by a yellow butterfly. In the branches overhead, a jay began to fuss and cuss about something or other. Yes sirree, this sure is the way to live. A blissful minute passed. Then another. Patrick had almost forgotten that Dottie was with him. Then—
“Pat!” She reached over to jerk at his sleeve.
“What?”
“I think I have a bite.”
He looked for the red-and-white float. It wasn’t there. Suddenly her line went taut. It’s probably just a piece of driftwood. “Might as well give it a yank.”
Dottie gave it a yank. “Oh my goodness—it’s a big one!”
He noted the sound of alarm in her voice, sensed an opportunity. “Probably a big water moccasin.”
She paled. “Really—are there poisonous snakes in these waters?”
“Sure.” He chuckled. “Why do you think they call it Moccasin Lake?”
“Oh, Pat—you’re teasing me.”
In a generous mood, he hoped Dottie had snagged herself a big channel catfish. She’d probably fall in with it. Now that’d be something to tell the boys about.
While Patrick watched, the ecstatic fisherwoman reeled in her catch. “Gracious—it feels like it weighs a ton!”
It ain’t puttin’ up any fight, but it does look like it could be a sure-enough lunker. “You want some help?”
“No, I do not.” You men think a woman can’t do anything but wash your dirty clothes and cook three meals a day and change diapers. “I can do this by myself, thank you.”
He scratched a match across his Big Mike overall bib, touched a sulfurous flame to his pipe. She’ll never get ’im in. I bet she breaks the line. Then she’ll take to hollerin’ and squallin’ to beat the band and she’ll blame me for losing her great big fish. She’ll say I should’ve helped her—even after she told me not to. This day was turning out pretty good after all.
When her catch of the day was finally on the edge of the bank, Patrick and Dottie stared blankly. Comprehension finally kicked in, followed by horror.
The fisherman felt his breakfast gurgling up into his throat.
His wife flung her rod and reel away, stumbled backward. The woman’s moan turned into a long, keening wail.
16
Her Daily Report
In ten tick-tocks, it would be 3:58 P.M. the FBI special agent SET the 8X binoculars aside, removed the single-purpose cell telephone from her purse, punched the programmed button.
The assistant SAC picked up on the second ring. “Talk to me, McTeague.”
“The official ID of the body part is scheduled for four o’-clock. I’m in the unmarked van, parked a block from the medical examiner’s home. Chief of Police Parris and Tribal Investigator Moon arrived about twelve minutes ago. About five minutes after that, Mrs. Pansy Blinkoe and Mr. Spencer Trottman arrived in Mr. Trottman’s vehicle—” She nodded. “Yes sir. Mr. Trottman is the family attorney. Mrs. Blinkoe is probably leaning on him for moral support as well as legal advice. I’m planning a fortuitous meeting with Chief Parris at about six P.M. Shall I call you back as soon as I determine the results of the ID?” She heard a clipped affirmative response, a click in her ear. McTeague dropped the cell phone back into her purse. This is really dumb—I shouldn’t be spying on my colleagues. I should be in there with Charlie Moon and Scott Parris, finding out firsthand what’s going on. But this silly cloak-and-dagger business is the assistant SAC’s pet idea, so there’s no point in suggesting the direct approach. She thought it over. Things need to work out so the stuffed shirt orders me to terminate the surveillance. McTeague thought she knew how to make this happen.
The Ordeal
Leading the way, the aged medical examiner switched on the lights over a narrow stairwell, descended into the cool, faintly chemical atmosphere of the mortuary. The occasional cadaver that came his way was stored in the basement of the pathologist’s three-story Victorian home. Dependent almost entirely on grinding automobile crashes, drug overdoses among the student body at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic University, and the occasional fistfight gone too far at Paddy’s Bar, business was not brisk. Despite the lack of material, Dr. Simpson loved his work.
Pansy Blinkoe followed Chief of Police Scott Parris down the stairs. She was trailed by family attorney Spencer Trottman. Charlie Moon was the last to descend into the cellar. Since his early childhood, the Ute had been taught to fear human remains—especially of those who had recently died by violence. On occasion, a dead body would fi
ll the tribal investigator with an inexpressible sense of dread. At other times he was able to approach a corpse with all of the objectivity required by his profession. This was not one of those times. Moon had seen the man only days ago, when the spirit was still firmly connected to the flesh.
The medical examiner flicked another light switch, led the solemn procession into a boxlike room with a gray concrete floor, gray cinder-block walls, a gray acoustic-paneled ceiling. Recessed into one wall were six stainless-steel drawers.
After a quick, chilling glance, the woman looked away.
Dr. Simpson had conducted this difficult ritual many times, and understood the necessity of starting out slowly, easing them into the hard part. With a practiced casualness, he produced a small plastic bag. “Mrs. Blinkoe, does this look at all familiar?”
Pansy and the family attorney nodded in unison; it was the woman who spoke: “That’s Manny’s wristwatch.” She frowned. “Where’d you find it?”
The M.E. stuffed the bag back into his pocket. “I removed it from the remains.”
“Oh.” Her face went chalky white.
Now for the hard part. Simpson turned a brass key in bin 2.
Pansy drew back, grabbed Moon’s arm. “Do I have to do this?”
The Ute did not know what to say.
The attorney did. “No, Mrs. Blinkoe—you do not.” Trottman glared at the M.E., as if expecting an argument.
“That’s right,” Dr. Simpson said. “It’s entirely voluntary. We do prefer to have the remains positively identified by the next of kin, but if you would rather not perform this service, we can ask someone else.” The pathologist’s eyes twinkled as he regarded the feisty lawyer. “Perhaps Mr. Trottman would stand in for you.”
The attorney bristled. “I certainly will.” He gave the woman a tender look. “Mrs. Blinkoe?”
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