Shadow Man

by James D. Doss

  The new bed was wonderfully comfortable.

  She sighed.

  The new house was remarkably quiet.

  She turned over on her other side.

  Too quiet.

  She could see the rain pelting hard on the window. But she could not hear it. Not through the double-paned glazing. And not on the roof, which had a thick sheet of insulation underneath.

  Daisy closed her eyes. She was so very tired.

  She could not sleep.

  Presently, the Ute elder knew what she must do. The insomniac got up, slipped on her shoes and a coat Moon had hung in the closet, picked up a flashlight, went outside into the rain, headed for the little trailer up the lane. Upon her arrival, she banged on the door.

  After a delay, the door opened. Eddie Tipton’s sleepy face presented itself in the blinding ray of her flashlight.

  “What—whatsamatter?”

  Daisy aimed the beam at his rusty pickup. “You have to go home right away.”

  He received this news with an expression of alarm. “Why?”

  “Your wife needs you.”

  “Did she call you on the phone?”

  Daisy shook her head. “Phone’s not hooked up yet.”

  He stared at the peculiar old woman. Daisy don’t need a telephone—she’s got other ways of knowing things. He pulled a garish pink plastic jacket over his shirt. “Charlie said I should look after you. You sure you’ll be all right?”

  She smirked. “I’ll manage.”

  After assuring her he’d be back the next day, the guard pulled away in the truck.

  Daisy stood there for a while in the drizzle of rain. Finally, full of the scent of sage and juniper, she opened the camping trailer’s squeaky door, closed it behind her, climbed onto the hard little bunk that smelled of Eddie Tipton’s sweat and tobacco. The worn-out woman snuggled under her coat. Rain peppered on the thin metal roof, rattled on the plastic windows. A sudden gust of wind shook the little structure. The rain got harder.

  She pulled the coat over her chin. Ahh. That’s better. I’ll tell Oscar Sweetwater to leave this trailer here. Just in case I ever need another guard…or a spare room for a visitor…or a place to store some… Before the thought was completed, she had drifted off into the deepest, sweetest of sleeps.

  63

  A Disagreeable Late-Night Encounter

  As the luxury automobile droned southward along the blacktop, the driver could be described in a single word—focused. Indeed, Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe had but one thought: Free at last! Only minutes earlier, he had crossed that invisible line that separates Colorado from New Mexico. In this instance, it also served as a boundary between his troubled past and a future as yet unseen.

  The autopilot portion of his mind, which was keeping track of those essential things, alerted him to the fact that he had not eaten in almost ten hours. Moreover, his bladder was overfull. The conscious intellect decided that a clean restroom would be quite welcome, followed by a grilled cheese sandwich and potato chips. He was wondering how far it was to the next settlement when a tiny point of light pricked the fabric of night. Arriving at a lonely crossroads, where there was only a single structure in sight, he pulled the SUV into a parking lot adjacent to a convenience store. With little concern for his convenience, the business establishment was closed up tight, and was dark except for a hundred-watt spotlight aimed at a rusty CONOCO sign. I must remember to keep a candy bar in the glove compartment. Abandoning the soft warmth of his Mercedes cocoon, the modest tourist retired to a shadowy spot and relieved himself.

  Upon his return, he was astonished to encounter a gangly old man in ragged overalls and an equally shabby denim jacket. Egad—where did this piece of flotsam float in from? The derelict was picking a gray moth corpse off the grille of Blinkoe’s expensive automobile. He addressed the offender in a not-unfriendly tone. “Ahoy there, my good fellow—take care not to smudge my recently waxed German motorcar.”

  Very deliberately, the cadaverous character turned a bearded face toward the younger, cleaner man. An absurdly long pipe dangled down over his fuzzy chin. Despite this impediment, the thin lips managed a hopeful grin. “Got any spare change, mister?”

  Manfred Blinkoe knew the game. The old dunder-kluck won’t depart unless I bribe him. And if I drive away without crossing his grimy paw with silver, he’ll probably hold a sharp object out and rake a streak of paint off my car. He fumbled in his wallet, thumbing past twenties, tens, and fives—until he finally discovered a scruffy one-dollar bill. The reluctant philanthropist poked it at the pathetic character.

  The elderly man accepted the greenback. “Thanks, Manny.” He rolled the bill into a tight little cylinder.

  He gaped at the stranger. “Uh…excuse me, old duffer—but what was that you said?”

  Ignoring the inquiry, the gaunt man produced a plastic cigarette lighter, with which he proceeded to ignite the tip of the currency. He used the resultant torch to put fire to the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe.

  Blinkoe gawked at the familiar gesture. Who do I know who used to do that?

  The old-timer sucked in a helping of carcinogenic smoke, dropped the smoldering remains of the currency on the gravel, ground it under the heel of his boot. “Look’s like me’n you are headed in the same direction.” He exhaled an aromatic blue cloud.

  Blinkoe stared at the bushy face, comparing it to a thousand others stored in his memory.

  Dunder-kluck chuckled. “You still can’t place me?”

  “I cannot.” The busy man was tiring of the game. “But I’m sure you must have a name.”

  “At that fancy-pants restaurant they called me Old Willie. Later on, when I got me a job on that rootin’-tootin’ big cattle ranch, I told them dimwit cowboys my handle was Dollar Bill.” The eyes glinted with a volatile mixture of hateful memories. “But you can call me Bad News.”

  “Very well, Bad News.” The dapper little man tipped an imaginary hat. “You may call me Rude McDude, but as I have definite places to go and important things to do, let us terminate this conv—” He recognized the eyes. “Oh, my God.”

  As Old Willie, aka Dollar Bill, aka Bad News mouthed a response, his false teeth clicked on the pipe stem. “Way too late for prayers, Manny.”

  “Bill Hitchcock—is that actually you?”

  “In the flesh, what little there is left on these old bones.” William “Pappy” Hitchcock pointed the eight-inch pipe stem at something that was shrouded in the night. “That’s my pickup—over there by the Dumpster.” Amused at the astonishment on his former comrade’s face, he added: “All the way from Charlie Moon’s ranch, I’ve been right on your tail. You and me got a serious score to settle.”

  “But what—”

  “What?” Hitchcock’s wild eyes goggled. “You and Pablo Feliciano left me in that arroyo, oozin’ out my life’s blood like a stuck pig.” Smoke spilled from his nostrils, waterfalled over the untrimmed mustache. “That’s what.”

  Blinkoe blinked. “But we thought you were dead.” Seeing the reflection of his lie in the angry man’s eyes, he added quickly: “Or very near to it.”

  “You should’ve made damn sure.” Put a bullet in my head.

  “Honestly, Bill—who could have imagined that you would have survived?” Blinkoe waved his arms like an exasperated penguin. “And we had just met that state-police vehicle, siren screaming, emergency lights flashing—it was apparent that the authorities had been alerted to the shootout. We could hardly afford to be stopped by the coppers with a bloody—a dying man in the truck amongst all those laundry bags stuffed with the drug cartel’s cash!”

  “But the cops didn’t stop you.” If looks could destroy, Blinkoe would have collapsed in a heap. “And I didn’t die. All night, my wounds pained like ten kinds of hell. I tried hard as I could to shrug off the body, but flesh and soul were stuck tight to one another.” The horrific memory provoked an involuntary shudder that rippled along his frame, threatening to loosen the old man’s joints
. Regaining his composure, Hitchcock continued. “I s’pose I must’ve finally passed out around first light.” A glazed expression passed like a shadow over the DC-3 pilot’s features. “I remember having this nightmare—you and me was walking along this lonely little road. You had a hold of my hand and was taking me somewhere I didn’t want to go. I figured I was dead and you was too.” He smiled at some private joke. “But round about noon, I woke up and saw this toothless Basque shepherd grinning at me. His ugly mutt was licking my face like it was a cherry lollipop.” He jammed his right hand into a jacket pocket. “Took me quite a while to get healed up, but soon as I could travel I went to where the three of us had planned to hide all them bags of greenbacks so I could take my cut. But imagine my surprise—it wasn’t there. Except for a twenty-dollar bill nailed to a juniper, which someone had drawn a silly grinny-face on.”

  The other thief made a little cough. “I suppose you want an explanation.”

  “It might help ease my troubled mind.”

  Manfred Blinkoe recalled that night as the best of his entire life. “After Pablo and I were—er—separated from you, we proceeded directly to the prearranged location and concealed the profits resulting from the night’s business transaction—aside from two bags each, which we opted to retain for…miscellaneous expenses. But we agreed to leave the bulk of our assets concealed until such time as the hijacking incident was long forgotten. Then—”

  “Let me guess. A few weeks later, you heard how Pablo had been picked up by the federales on a murder rap.” William Hitchcock chewed on the pipe stem. “Knowing ol’ Pablo, you figured he’d cut himself a deal—he’d rat you out on the hijacking, and maybe even tell John Law where to find the cartel’s cash. So you hurried back and moved all those laundry bags to someplace where nobody but you could find ’em.”

  “You are approximately half right.” Blinkoe cleared his throat. “But let us back up to the night of the hijacking. After we’d hidden the stuff, Pablo and I shook hands and parted company. But I parked the Humvee on Lobo Mesa and kept watch—just to make certain our wily Colombian friend wasn’t planning to double back.”

  “And take everything for himself.” The aged aviator nodded. “Smart move. You can never trust them foreigners.”

  “My sentiments exactly. And as soon as I was quite certain Pablo was not coming back, I returned to the site myself.”

  This candid revelation took a moment to sink in. “You mean to tell me you grabbed the stuff before Pablo got arrested?”

  “Call it a premonition.” Blinkoe pulled at the left fork of his beard. “I had this overwhelming compulsion to…to take sensible precautions.”

  “So what’d you do with all that money?”

  “The task required four trips in the Humvee, but by late on the following day I had moved the considerable fortune to several other locations.”

  Hitchcock regarded his former partner with something approaching awe. “Manny, you are crooked as a barrel of snakes.”

  “Thank you.” Blinkoe sniffed. “But crooked is saddled by a somewhat negative connotation. I much prefer the term sly. Or devious, if you like.”

  “Okay. You’re sly and devious.”

  Sly and Devious took a deep breath. “But I am talking entirely too much about myself. What have you been doing during the interim?”

  Hitchcock took a long, thoughtful pull on his pipe. “Oh, nothing much. Somma this. Somma that.”

  “Please, don’t be so modest. I know you’re always involved in some remarkably cheeky enterprise. So give me a for-example.”

  “Okay.” He spat on a discarded oil can. “I crossed the border into Mexico and busted Pablo Feliciano outta that jail down in Hermosillo.” He paused to admire the fiery trail of a pea-size meteorite. “After I got him outta town, we sat ourselves down by the riverside, tossed back a few cans of that fine Tecate brew, talked over them olden days till it was almost daylight. It was like whatta you call…” He swirled the pipe stem in the air, as if to stir up the word he was searching for. “Neuralgia.”

  The university graduate winced. “I’m sure you mean nostalgia.”

  Hitchcock glowered at his nitpicky audience. “I finally told Pablo how the money was missing from our hiding place, and he cussed a blue streak and swore he hadn’t told a living soul about the hijacking, and it had to be your work and how me and him ought to hunt you down and rip your skin off in little strips till you ’fessed up.”

  “Pablo was always an inordinately passionate fellow.”

  “That’s a fact. He couldn’t stop saying how grateful he was to me for dynamiting the jailhouse—told me over and over how sorry he was he’d ever let you talk him into dumping me in that arroyo.”

  Blinkoe opened his mouth to protest.

  “Shuddup, Manny. I told him not to worry about it. ‘What’s done is done,’ sez I. Sooner or later, everybody gets what’s coming to him. Then I cut the lying bastard’s throat and rolled his body in the muddy waters of the Bavispe.” Hitchcock grinned crookedly at the orthodontist. “You were number two on my short list, but I picked up a bad fever and dang near died. I think it must’ve been malaria, ’cause it kept coming back and knocking me off my pegs. It was nearly a year before I was able to travel again. I heard you was in Colorado, and finally run you down in Granite Creek. I spent a long time watching you, learning where you lived, all about your pretty wife, your fancy big houseboat, the names of all your big-shot friends, even where you liked to feed your face. Then I got me a piddlin’ little job at your favorite restaurant and kinda hunkered down, waiting for my chance.”

  Blinkoe nodded. “Then it was you who shot that unfortunate lady at Phillipe’s.”

  “Accidentally killing that poor woman is the thing that bothers me the most.” Old Willie the groundskeeper felt a tear course down his leathery cheek, wiped it off with the back of his hand. “At that range, I don’t know how I could’ve missed you—a blind man with a gimpy arm could of thrown the damned gun and hit you!” He heaved a dismal sigh. “And when I tried to take another pop at you, that two-bit little .22 jammed on me. So I pitched it into the stream and waited for the cops to show up so I could feed ’em a line about hearing the shot.” He clenched the pipe between his teeth. “Later on, I followed you and your tin-hat lawyer out to that old Indian woman’s trailer house, where you had a secret powwow with that tribal cop. And that time, let me tell you—Mrs. Hitchcock’s number-one son wasn’t packin’ no nickel-and-dime pistola. I had me a fine high-power rifle and a jim-dandy scope. I was just about to pull the trigger when the wind started to blow, and messed up my shot.”

  The intended victim was having no trouble following the unfolding story line. “So you decided to plant the dynamite on my boat.”

  “Sure. And after it was blown to flinders, I finally crossed you off my list.” The assassin grinned, shook his head. “But you are one slippery character, Manny. When I heard the rumor that it wasn’t your arm that got fished out of the lake, I figured you’d pulled a fast one on me. Way I saw it, my best chance to find you again was to keep a close eye on that Ute lawman you was so chummy with. So Dollar Bill got himself a job on the big Indian’s ranch. It seemed like a long shot, but guess what—I spotted you the very next day after I hired on. ‘Manny is dead meat,’ sez I. But that pug-faced bodyguard stuck to you like stink on a skunk. I got so danged frustrated at not being able to pop you, that one night I took a potshot at that Indian cop—just for meanness, I s’pose. Mr. Moon was on horseback. I had the crosshairs right on his spine, and when I pulled the trigger he went outta the saddle like a sledgehammer had smacked him square on the back. ‘At least that tommyhawk tosser is outta the picture,’ sez I—but come daylight, the Indian’s walking around like nothing had happened.” He paused long enough for a thoughtful puff. “I gotta admit it, Manny—that got me pretty spooked.”

  “Charlie Moon is a remarkably fortunate man.” Blinkoe stared at the stone-cold killer. “And you, Bill—you are a very persistent
fellow.”

  “That I am.” Hitchcock took another drag on the pipe. “And you won’t slip away this time.”

  “Pardon me for asking, but I am understandably curious—what, precisely, do you have in mind?”

  “If the tables was turned, Manny—what’d you do?”

  “Well, being a civilized man, I suppose I’d give you a good talking-to. ‘Bill,’ I’d say—‘your behavior has not been strictly up to par.’ I would demand a heartfelt apology. And, of course, my fair share of the loot.”

  “Nobody ever accused Bill Hitchcock of being civilized.”

  “A pity, but I cannot deny it.”

  “It had crossed my mind to slit your throat, just like I did for Pablo.”

  The intended victim took some time to mull this over, then—not wishing to offend—offered a carefully worded criticism. “Though I can appreciate the compelling symmetry of your plan, I do not find this finale entirely appealing. In fact, I feel obliged to suggest that you reconsider—”

  “This ain’t the Dixie Democrats Club, Manny. You don’t get no vote.”

  “Fair enough. But I do have access to certain liquid assets. I refer to a fortune in excess of sixty-seven million, cached in the Gila Wilderness. Half of it is rightfully yours.”

  Hitchcock shook his head. “Money don’t mean nothing to me.”

  Then you have certainly lost your mind.

  Somewhere off on the western highlands, a coyote yip-yipped.

  Unseen in a bushy mulberry tree, a hungry owl hooted.

  Under a thirsty hollyhock, a fat black cricket chirruped.

  Entranced by this offbeat musical ensemble, the adversaries assumed a temporary truce, and watched a crescent moon float up over the Sangre de Cristos.

  Finally, Hitchcock grunted. This was a signal that he was ready to get down to serious business.