Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  Parris glanced toward the cemetery. “Doc Simpson will deal with the human remains. But I’d be pleased if the Bureau would submit the late Mrs. Blinkoe’s purse and its contents to its forensic experts. And you’re welcome to whatever you find in Trottman’s pockets.”

  McTeague stared at the shrewd lawman, wondering what his game was. “I’d like to have a look at the crime scene.”

  Parris gave her a little salute. “Follow the blinking lights.”

  McTeague shot a quick look at Charlie Moon, stalked off across the highway.

  Parris checked his watch. “Two bits says she’ll be back in less than twenty minutes.”

  “You’re on.”

  She was back just short of sixteen, with Pansy’s red purse and some other odds and ends.

  Moon flipped a shiny Tennessee quarter to Parris.

  Without a word to the gamblers, she placed the plastic evidence bag in the trunk of her government-issue Ford sedan.

  The tribal investigator leaned on the sleek automobile, smiled upon his favorite fed. “Good morning.”

  She returned the look, but not the smile.

  “Uh—when you check out the lady’s purse, you might find an expensive compact. I hope you’ll have a close look at it.”

  “Why do you hope?”

  “The compact was a present from Dr. Blinkoe to his wife.”

  “That hardly responds to my question.”

  “I’ve had a long, sleepless night.” Moon covered a yawn. “It’s the best I can do.”

  “Your best, is it?” She turned away to greet an exuberant Dr. Simpson, who was crossing the highway, chattering cheerfully with an assistant about the “imminent onset of rigor mortis.”

  The tribal investigator gamely accepted this abrupt dismissal.

  “What a woman,” Parris muttered.

  Charlie Moon nodded. Yes indeed.

  59

  Revelation at the Copper Street Delicatessen

  Lunch was her quiet time. Special Agent McTeague was about to take a bite from a toasted tuna-salad sandwich, when she heard the hissing sound.

  “Hssst.”

  It came from the booth behind her. She closed her eyes. Please, God, don’t let it be who I think it is.

  It was too late for this particular prayer. The thing had already been decided.

  Louder this time, and longer. “Hssssssst!”

  McTeague put a hand to her ear. “Hark! What is this I hear—a punctured tire going flat?”

  “No.” But he did sound somewhat deflated. “It’s only me.”

  “Right. Mr. S.”

  “It’s not mister, just plain—”

  “I know. How’ve you been, Just Plain Scarf?”

  “Not so loud with my code name—somebody might hear you.”

  “Sorry. I suppose my tradecraft could use some sprucing up.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “Very well. I suppose my—”

  “I wish you wouldn’t treat me like some kinda loony.”

  “I’m sorry.” She smiled at her sandwich. “Truly I am.”

  “You should be. A man has his pride, you know.”

  The lady was well aware of this serious shortcoming among the hairy-legged gender. “Pride goeth before the fall,” she said. “And hear this—if you intend to make a habit of stalking a federal agent, you are heading for a hard fall. You sneak up behind me just one more time, I’ll fling you on the ground, cuff you, read you your wrongs, then beat you black and blue. And that’s just the good part.”

  “You don’t need to get testy.” A sullen pause. “You didn’t leave the twenty bucks under the flower pot.”

  “I considered it, but came to the conclusion that such generosity on my part would only encourage you. I do hope you are not slightly offended.”

  “No, I guess not.” A sniff. “That food sure smells good.”

  She sighed. Even dimwits need sustenance. “Are you hungry?”

  “Let’s just say I could use a few dollars for groceries.”

  “How many dollars—twenty?”

  “That’d do nicely. And I’m ready to earn it.”

  “I’m listening.” She helped herself to a cheese-flavored potato chip.

  “You want to hear somethin’ about that Mr. Blinky?”

  “Like where he is?”

  “That’s what I mean, all right.”

  “Sure.” She sipped a tall glass of iced tea.

  “Then listen up, ’cause here’s the honest truth—Blinky’s holed up out west of town. At a cattle ranch.”

  She choked on the tea, coughed.

  There was a “heh-heh,” then: “I thought that’d get your attention.”

  McTeague coughed again. “Which ranch west of town?”

  “The spread that Ute Indian pays taxes on. Well, Mr. Moon actually owns two ranches. But the Big Hat’s where Blinky’s at.”

  She fumbled in her purse, found the microcassette recorder. “Do you know this for a fact?”

  “Dang tootin’ I do!”

  McTeague pressed the Record button. “Describe Dr. Blinkoe.”

  He recited a description that matched what had been in the newspapers.

  “Have you actually seen him?”

  “I dang sure have.”

  “When?”

  “Plenty of times, including just this morning—why, I was closer to that forked-beard tooth yanker than I am to you.”

  It’s a stupid question, but I have to ask. “As far as you know, is Mr. Moon aware that Dr. Blinkoe is on his property?”

  “Know it? Why of course he knows it—that sneaky Indian’s been hiding Blinky on the Big Hat.” A few heartbeats. “Now where’s my twenty dollars?”

  McTeague folded a bill, held it over her shoulder—where it was instantly snatched away. The FBI agent hated to pursue this, but she could not look the other way. Not even for Charlie Moon. “Scarf, would you like to have twenty more?”

  “Maybe. But before I say yes, I’ll have to know exactly what for.”

  “Have I ever seen you before? At the ranch, I mean.”

  “Uh…maybe. I mean yeah. You’ve seen me all right.”

  “Tell me your name.”

  A quick intake of breath. “Look, miss—if that Indian finds out I’ve been carrying tales about him, he’d skin me alive, grind me up like so much man-burger, feed me to the cattle.”

  She smiled. “Bovines do not eat human flesh.”

  A rude snort. “That’s what you think—they’ll eat anything that’s got calories—even other cows, if the meat’s mixed in with their regular feed. Those beeves are nothin’ but big-eyed, lip-smacking cannibals.”

  “You needn’t worry about being fed to the Herefords. The Bureau will protect your identity.” While Scarf tried to make up his mind, she heard the thumpity-thump of his fingers on the table.

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “If I told you who I was, there’s always the chance Moon might find out. I’d have to leave the state. On toppa the extra twenty, I’d need some serious travel money.”

  “That can be taken care of. It’s your call.”

  A ten-second eternity.

  “Uh—first, let me see that extra twenty bucks.”

  A second bill was passed from booth to booth.

  “Okay, FBI lady. A dollar’s a dollar and a deal’s a deal.”

  The federal agent held her breath.

  “Out at the Big Hat, they call me Cap.”

  “Yes, of course, I remember you very—” McTeague heard the heavy sound of boot heels as the Big Hat cook headed for the delicatessen’s rear exit.

  Tilda the hun

  Charlie Moon had dropped by Scott Parris’s office to read a faxed report. According to the document, Nebraska state-police detectives had discovered an illegal beef-butchering operation on a bankrupt chicken farm just outside of Omaha. The Ute rancher pored over page after page, but it turned out the hides and heads had been disposed of. This being so, there were no
brands or nose prints to be had. Disappointed, Moon was about to head back to the ranch and a colicky horse and a grouchy aunt. Parris reminded the busy man that he’d been in town for only fifteen minutes, assured him that a coffee break would be just the thing. And while we’re sipping java and chomping down on delectable sugar-encrusted pastries, why not enjoy a hand of straight poker? He didn’t have to twist Moon’s arm all that hard.

  Parris checked his hand, asked for three cards. Moon dealt them, gave himself two. They were concentrating on coffee and doughnuts and probabilities when the handsome woman opened the door, marched across the hardwood floor, arched an eyebrow at the older man. “So—this is how you spend your time at the taxpayers’ expense.”

  “Who asked you?” Parris gave the FBI agent a stony-faced look. “And besides, I’m on my lunch hour.”

  She rolled her eyes. “At three in the afternoon?”

  “He’s telling the honest truth,” Moon said. “If I was forced to, I’d be happy to testify under oath in a court of law that Scott hasn’t done a lick of work since he started his lunch hour at ten-twenty this morning.”

  Parris shot a flake of the flinty gaze at the Indian. “I know you don’t mean well, partner—but please don’t try to help me.”

  “Whatever you say.” Moon grinned at the pretty lady. “You want some coffee, or a doughnut?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  The Ute gentleman got up, pulled out a chair. “You want us to deal you in?”

  “Unlike a certain chief of police I could mention, I am on duty.” She settled herself in the seat. “Besides, I’d hate to take all your hard cash, not to mention IOUs.”

  Both men stared at the woman. Parris asked the question. “You play poker?”

  McTeague laughed. “Does Barry Bonds play baseball? Does Bill Gates make money? Does—”

  “Does she know when to put a sock in it?” Parris checked his cards. Nuts. “Aside from a persistent desire to persecute and pester me, what brings you here?”

  “The invitation, of course.”

  “I never invited you,” Parris grumped. “You just barged in like Aunt Audrey at suppertime, or Tilda the Hun crashing through the gates of—”

  “That’s Atilla.”

  “Tilda was his older sister,” Parris snapped. “Tilda the Hun also had a habit of showing up where she wasn’t invited.”

  “Very well—enjoy your silly historical fantasies. But I was referring to Charlie’s gracious invitation.” She cranked the big eyes up to full size, turned them on the Ute.

  Moon’s heart skipped a few beats. “Uh—you figure I invited you here?”

  “I was on the way back to my office, saw your car parked out front, cleverly deduced that you were visiting Chief What’s-his-name, thought I’d drop in and say: ‘Yes, I don’t mind if I do.’”

  Lost in her eyes, Moon heard himself say: “Don’t mind if you do what?”

  “Last time I had a meal at the Big Hat, you told me I could come back whenever I ‘had a hankering to.’” She almost smiled. “I have a hankering.”

  “I’d like to oblige you.” Moon’s expression had switched from balmy to scattered clouds. “But there’s a small problem.”

  She presented a passable poker face. “Problem?”

  “My cook hasn’t been doing any cooking for the past week or so.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.”

  “You and all the hungry cowboys on the Big Hat—and don’t forget those Columbine chow hounds that’ll fight a starving pit bull for a meaty soup bone.” The manager of the two-ranch spread shook his head. “My employees will use any excuse to come sniffing around this gifted pot-and-pan-banger’s kitchen. But lately, Cap’s been feeling somewhat poorly.”

  Her poker face had hardened into a brittle mask. “I hope he recovers soon from whatever’s ailing him.”

  “Oh, I’m sure Cap’ll be feeling better by and by. In the meantime, I’ll treat you to a Wonder Woman–size dinner at the Mountain Man Bar and Grille—”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “You made me a promise, and I’m calling it in.” She tapped a crimson fingernail on his chest. “I will take my breakfast at the Big Hat. Tomorrow morning.”

  He frowned at the determined woman. “But with my hundred-horsepower hash slinger only hittin’ on about two cylinders, there’s no way I can lay out a meal that’d suit a lady of your refined tastes and delicate sensibilities and huge appetite, so why don’t we just ooze on over to the Mountain Man this evening and—”

  “Just this once, we shall limp along without your chef’s expert services.” She picked a piece of lint off Moon’s sleeve. “From what I’ve heard, you’re a pretty fair hand with a skillet.”

  He lowered his gaze, put on a bashful “aw shucks, ma’am” expression. If he had been outside and near a source of small stones, Moon would have kicked at a pebble. “My cooking ain’t nothing to brag about.”

  “Charlie, your boyish modesty is one of your most endearing qualities. But my mind is made up. I will see you at the Big Hat tomorrow, nine A.M. sharp.” She flashed a dazzling smile. “I like my bacon extra-crispy, my eggs scrambled, my biscuits red-hot.” She got up, glanced over Parris’s shoulder at his cards. “Pair of deuces and some trash. Oh well, make the best of it.” Little heels went clickety-click. Big door went bang.

  Besides having his hand exposed and his professional character demeaned, Scott Parris hated being left out of things. Had since he was three hours old. He laid his cards aside. “Charlie, I don’t want to commit some kind of fawx pass, but—”

  “Fox what?”

  “Say it however you want, the point is—” The middle-aged man paused, stared blankly at a paneled wall.

  Moon set his cards aside. “So what’s the point?”

  Parris scratched at his thinning hair. “I disremember.” Mentally backing up one step at a time, he retraced his verbal tracks. “Oh yeah. I don’t want to make no social blunder, so tell me straight out—am I or am I not invited to this greasy, gut-busting breakfast at the Big Hat?”

  “You’re always more than welcome at my table, pardner.” Moon clapped him on the back. “And I expect this’ll be a meal you don’t want to miss.”

  Parris blinked at the door the fed had slammed behind her. “You think Special Agent McTeague is gonna grill you in your own kitchen?”

  “Till I sizzle.” The Ute grinned at his best friend. “Remember how she likes her bacon?”

  60

  Perched in the Catbird Seat

  Special Agent Lila Mae McTeague polished off her scrambled eggs, biscuits, and extra-crispy bacon with an enthusiasm that would have raised awe among an assembly of famished lumberjacks. The avid diner noticed that the men around the table were staring at her. “I was hungry,” she said, and buttered another hot biscuit.

  “It’s all right,” Moon replied with frank admiration. “A man who’s stood over a hot woodstove all morning appreciates a lady with a healthy appetite.”

  Scott Parris nodded. “I like a woman who don’t pick at her food like a bird.” He punctuated this assertion with a healthy belch.

  Forrest Wakefield wiped his mouth with a cotton napkin that matched the red-and-white-checkered oilcloth on the table. “That was an excellent breakfast.” He shot a look at his host. “And I appreciate the invitation to the feast.”

  “You’re welcome,” Moon said. “I’m glad you’re here to finish up your work.”

  McTeague smiled at Moon’s fellow plotter. As if she didn’t know, she asked: “What sort of work do you do, Mr. Wakefield?”

  Pleased at the woman’s interest in his career, he blushed. “I’m with the United States Department of Agriculture.”

  “Ah,” she said, “a brother fed.”

  Feeling self-conscious in the company of a strikingly pretty FBI agent, a tough-as-nails chief of police, and a legendary tribal investigator, Wakefield took a halfhearted stab at a fragment of fried potato. “I’m jus
t a county agent.”

  “Just? Don’t be so doggone modest,” Moon boomed. “Why, without our county extension agents serving agriculture in all the fifty states, where would we be?” When no one responded to his rhetorical question, the beef rancher provided the answer himself. “Why, we’d be knee-deep in alfalfa rot, cotton-chewing boll weevils, and sickly sheep and cattle—that’s where we’d be.”

  Parris regarded his improvised biscuit-bacon-potato sandwich. “And eating bread full of rat droppings and pork crawling with worms.”

  “Hear, hear,” McTeague said. “Hooray for the USDA.” It was clear to one and all that she was in a fine mood.

  Warmed by this unanimous praise, Wakefield blushed to the roots of his hair.

  McTeague got up from her chair. “Charlie, since you cooked the meal, I’ll wash the dishes.”

  The Ute was immediately on his feet. “Oh no you won’t.”

  “I won’t?”

  “Of course not. At the Big Hat, ladies don’t wet their delicate hands in dishwater—that’s a man’s work.”

  She seated herself. “Well, if you insist.”

  “I certainly do.” Having made his point, Moon also sat down. He pointed to his friend. “Scott’ll do the dishes.”

  Parris glared at his host. “Why me?”

  Moon ignored the pointless question, smiled at the attractive lady. “And while Scott washes and Forrest wipes, you and me can go for a nice walk, down by the creek.”

  Special Agent McTeague shook her head.

  “No?”

  She looked from one man to the other. The dejected tribal investigator. The chief of police, who was munching another biscuit, this one filled to overflowing with blackberry jam. The county agent, who was showing distinct signs of unease. “Before we go for a stroll, I have few things that I wish to say.”

  “Go right ahead.” Moon scooted away from the table, hitched his thumbs in his belt. “I believe I speak for all of us when I say you have a captive audience.”

  “Thank you.” She turned to the county agent. “Even Mr. Wakefield may find my account of some interest.”