The Widow's Revenge (21 page)

Charlie Moon stayed to watch.

A shiny black polyethylene tent was assembled over the makeshift grave. Inside, an array of battery-operated floodlights and two high-resolution
digital cameras were placed on tripods. The team began by vacuuming sand and grit away from the blackened feet. They proceeded with pointed little trowels, toothbrushes, and dental picks. It would take virtually all night for the dedicated, hardworking specialists to expose the remains.

About an hour before sunrise, the inverted corpse of a middle-aged male was removed from the burial site. Preliminary imprints and photographs of incisors, cuspids, and bicuspids were uplinked to a communications satellite and forwarded to D.C., where specialists were waiting to compare the corpse’s teeth to prison dental records of Loyola Montoya’s grandson.

The remains were positively ID’d as one Wallace M. Montoya.

Score one for the tribal elder.

There was more.

Though not yet ready to sign her name on the dotted line, the FBI forensics-team leader (who had earned her MD and PhD at Johns Hopkins) stated her professional opinion that Mr. Montoya had expired after suffering numerous superficial bruises and lacerations. All this, in addition to the item placed so cruelly around his neck.

The barbed wire.

Score two for the tribal elder. Which is somewhat generous, because, as it happened, strangulation was
not
the cause of death. While still alive and wearing the barbed-wire necklace, Mr. Montoya had been, in technical parlance, “. . . exposed to excessive temperatures.” The unfortunate fellow had been—slowly and with considerable skill—
roasted.

Score three for Miss Daisy.

Charlie Moon shook his head and wondered,
How could Aunt Daisy have known so much about this nasty business?
Not that he would ask her.
She might tell me.

Oh. One more thing.

After being cooked, Wallace’s corpse had been expertly butchered. An estimated thirty pounds of flesh had been deftly sliced from his buttocks and limbs. Moreover—and this would be Daisy’s score number four—the body had been slathered with sauce.

Very tasty, homemade stuff, the Bureau forensics-team leader opined.

And though a detailed analysis would have to wait until the remains
arrived at the FBI Forensics Laboratory, the enthusiastic young scientist was willing to stick her neck out and assert that the recipe called for plenty of corn syrup, a smallish proportion of sorghum molasses, white vinegar, tomato sauce, and—just a pinch of paprika.

TOPPING OUT AT FOUR FEET EIGHT INCHES, WEIGHING IN AT MAYBE
eighty-five pounds when she was wearing her knee-high gum boots and heavy wool overcoat, the bookseller was not an imposing figure. Except when Harriet had her .38 caliber, double-action Colt pistol in her hand, which she was likely to in short order if a customer offended her.

Harriet’s minor eccentricities, along with the lack of demand for musty, yellowed old volumes that cost an arm and a leg, were the reasons why her business was not exactly booming. Though there was no shortage of tough customers hereabouts, the townsfolk tend to steer clear of those entrepreneurs whom they deemed to be certifiably insane. Thankfully for Harriet, there were a few locals who were pleased to frequent her bookstore, and “Little Butch” Cassidy topped this short list. The proprietor had taken quite a liking to this customer, who was barely a head taller than herself and absolutely filled to the brim with book learning. Butch was also a cash customer who never departed without four or five books tucked under his arm.

Which was why, when the bell above the door announced his entrance with a tinny “ding-a-ling,” the wild-eyed little woman grinned and shouted, “Hey, Shorty—long time no see!”

The Columbine cowboy tipped his wide-brimmed hat and began to poke around in a box of books the proprietor had recently purchased from an estate sale, and was about to inquire whether she had acquired any G. K. Chesterton or George McDonald first editions, when the magic of the moment was interrupted by a second person entering the premises.

From the newcomer’s unkempt appearance and wily-coyote expression, the proprietor rightly deduced that this was not a potential customer. On the contrary . . .
That shifty-eyed jackass is a shoplifter if I ever laid
eyes on one.
Instant assessment was her specialty, meting out just punishment her bounden duty. Harriet’s eyes hardened, and her hand vanished into the deep pocket on her denim apron, where her grubby little fingers were pleased to feel the comforting chill of blued steel.

The suspect patron was
this close
to having a bad shopping experience.

Fortunately for all concerned, the object of Harriet’s suspicions broke the spell by introducing himself.

MR. SMITH

The broad-shouldered six-footer removed his sweat-stained straw hat, sidled up to Butch, and said, “You’re one of them cowboys that works for that big-shot Indian, ain’t you?”

Butch thought he knew where this was going.
Poor fella’s looking for a handout. Well, I guess I can spare a dollar or two.
The easy mark allowed as how he was a Columbine employee.

“I figured you was.” The stranger pointed at the street. “I saw you get out of that old F-150 that has
COLUMBINE RANCH
painted on the door. I’m Smith.
Bill
Smith.” He delivered this introduction in the manner of that distinguished actor whom he considered to be the best James Bond of them all.

“Pleased to meet you.” The shorter man pumped Smith’s hairy paw. “I’m Cassidy.
Butch
Cassidy.” Suffice it to say that Cassidy outdid Smith with the most wonderfully precise intonation, and an ear-pleasing British accent.

Caught off guard by this snappy comeback, the stranger cast a doubtful glance at Harriet, whose face suggested a shriveled crab apple with oily ball bearings for eyes. He also took note of the fact that the woman’s hand was in her apron pocket. Along with another bulge, which looked suspiciously like a pistol. Nothing is so scary as a tetchy old woman with a deadly weapon. Smith whispered to Butch, “I got something to tell you. Maybe we oughta go outside.”

Which they did.

Butch Cassidy had the guy figured for just another derelict with a sad tale to tell about how he’d once had a fine job in a Fortune 500 company
corner office, a ten-room house in Aspen, and an eight-figure bank account. His luck had gone sour with the stock-market crash, and all he needed now was a modest loan so he could purchase a bus ticket back to his daddy’s little turnip farm near Stumptown, West Virginia.

After he heard what Bill Smith actually had to say, the Columbine cowboy was more than a little surprised. Charlie Moon’s employee wondered how much of the glib-tongued drifter’s account was on the up-andup.
Maybe the whole wagonload?
Butch’s sunburned brow furrowed.
More likely, not a solitary word.

Either way . . .
The boss will have to hear about this.

CHARLIE MOON WAS STANDING BY THE RIVER, HELPING HIMSELF TO A
stiff dose of crisp, high-country air. Hour by hour, day by day, the tribal investigator was increasingly enjoying the peace that filled this wide valley between the smoky-blue granite mountain ranges. It was a pleasure to be home again, where no ill wind carried the scent of roasted man-flesh to a man’s nostrils, and criminally insane misfits did not rush around helter-skelter, wreaking havoc among elderly widows and their errant nephews, not to mention the infirm and those selfless souls who do their utmost to nurse them back to health. In this little corner of paradise, a discouraging word could not be heard over the breeze rattling cottonwood leaves, the river roaring happily as you please and from time to time rolling a small boulder along on the submerged pathway.

When the telephone in Moon’s jacket pocket vibrated, he strode a couple of steps from the riverbank before taking the call from Mr. Cassidy. After hearing about every third word of what Butch had to say, he withdrew five long strides farther from the noisy river. “Sorry, all I got was that you’re in Harriet’s shop, checking out some books—could you start from page one?”

“It’s probably this old cell phone, boss—ever since I dropped it in the horse trough the danged battery won’t hold a charge.”

“Bring it by the headquarters and I’ll issue you a brand-new one.” Moon grabbed on to his black hat to prevent a gust of dusty wind from taking it to Kansas and yelled at his miles-away employee, “So what’s up?”

Butch Cassidy gave his employer the executive summary: “I run into this fella who’s a buddy of that poor guy the FBI found buried upside down. I think you might want to talk to him.”

Moon still got two or three calls a day from someone who wanted an
interview with the Indian who’d shot those mad-dog killers at ABC Hardware. The Ute, who preferred to remain out of the public eye, had never forgotten his third-grade teacher’s favorite proverb.

FOOLS’ NAMES AND FOOLS’ FACES
ARE OFTEN SEEN IN PUBLIC PLACES

“This fella who claims to be a pal of Loyola Montoya’s grandson—any chance he’s sniffing around for a story about the recent crime spree?”

“This guy a journalist?” Butch brayed a donkey laugh in the boss’s ear. “No way.”

“So what do you take him for? Butcher, baker—Indian chief?”

“He’s nothing special—just another dime-a-dozen drifter who looks for work when he can’t find any loose change in his pocket for booze.” Recalling the fact that his boss was a recovering alcoholic, Cassidy blushed. “What I mean is, he smells like a beer keg and looks like . . . well . . . let’s put it like this, boss—this guy would have to dress up some to pass for a bum.”

Moon grinned. “That bad, huh?”

“I’d guess he found his wardrobe in a Dumpster.” A pause while Cassidy cast a wary glance at the subject of discussion. “But just in case he’s on the level, I think you ought to talk to him.”

“Okay. Put him on.”

“Yes sir.”

Moon heard snatches of a muffled conversation between Cassidy and the stranger, then an unfamiliar voice in his ear. “Uh, hi.”

“Hello, Mr. Smith.”

“Look, I don’t want to waste a minute of your time—all I wanted to do was say
good for you
. I mean for shooting two of those rotten bastards that killed poor ol’ Wally—and his grandma. I learned all about it on the TV. Too bad the two you banged up was busted outta the hospital and got away. But if there’s any justice left in this sorry old world, they’ll be picked up, tried, and fried in the hot seat. Well, that’s about all I gotta say.” A raspy cough. “Sorry, I smoke way too many coffin nails. But I can quit anytime I want to. Stopped three times already, just this week. Ha-ha!”

Moon smiled at the archaic joke. “Sounds like you and Wallace Montoya were pretty close.”

“Well, I’ll say this much—we shared what we had. Beans, tortillas, beer—and enough hard time for a dozen lifetimes. Ever since I heard that that bunch of crazy hoot owls had murdered Wally, I’ve been just aching to get even. But I don’t suppose I’ll ever see any of ’em again.”

“You’ve actually
seen
these bad guys?”

“Oh, sure—just like I told Mr. Cassidy.” Smith cleared his throat. “Well, not every single one of ’em, I don’t suppose. But that afternoon when I dropped by Wally’s granny’s house . . . when was it? I guess about a week or so before the old woman was murdered. Anyway, Wally was down by that little stream, shootin’ the breeze with these four guys—or maybe it was five.” A sigh. “My memory ain’t what it used to be. Anyway, there was these guys—oh, and a couple of women who I guess was traveling with ’em. One was a sure-enough looker. Anyhow, when I showed up, the guys sort of drifted off into the underbrush. Not one of ’em said a word to me—but that good-looking girl, she did take a long, hard look at me. After they was gone, Wally and me headed into town to toss back a few brews and jaw some about old times, but he wouldn’t say all that much about the people that was camped out by his granny’s property—except that they was serious bad actors. Oh, there was some other big talk that I didn’t pay much attention to at the time—like how Wally was going to join up with their gang and get rich quick. Me, I figured that bunch for a scummy gang of dope pushers.”

Moon had been holding his breath. “The chief of police in Granite Creek is a friend of mine. I’m sure he’d like to hear what you’ve got to say about—”

“Not a chance!” Three heartbeats. “Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to yell in your ear like that, Mr. Moon.” Deep intake of breath. “Here’s the thing—Smith’s not my real name. I’ve done some hard time and when I finally got paroled down in Texas, I got a job in a pecan orchard, but that didn’t last a week. Hell, I don’t even remember exactly what happened except that I got into a case of beer with some thirsty wetbacks and before you know it I’d broke into somebody’s house trailer and stole an old TV set that wasn’t worth twenty bucks—can you beat that?”

Moon could, but he had no desire to remember all the follies and misadventures he’d suffered while under the influence. “So John Law’s looking for you?”

Smith chuckled. “Well, not like I was Jesse James, but they’re lookin’ all right. And once those badge toters in the Lone Star State get on your trail, they don’t ever let up.” Another cough. “Look, I know you’re a busy man, what with all them cattle and whatnot to look after, so why don’t I just give the phone back to Mr. Cassidy and—”

“Where did you do time in Texas?”

A hesitation. “Rolling Plains. That’s where I met Wally.”

“I know the place.”

“Don’t tell me you did time there too.”

“No, but a few fellas I ran into have.”
Including a pair of car thieves I arrested that got extradited back to Texas on manslaughter charges
. “Mr. Smith—or whatever your name is—you might as well know right up front that I used to work for the Southern Ute Police Department as a uniformed cop. Right now I’m a tribal investigator. And on top of that, I’m a part-time deputy to the Granite Creek chief of police.”