Snake Dreams (23 page)

Moon thought he knew what had happened.
Nancy’s been pretty upset ever since Scott conned her with that “wife” business last night. I bet she asked Sarah to drive her into town so she could tell the police everything she knows about Jake Harper.
Whether or not the girl was connected to her stepfather’s murder, that was the smart move to make. And whatever else she might be, Miss Yazzi was no dope.

Moon strode onto the redwood porch and into the headquarters parlor. He was about halfway across that spacious room when something in a shaft of sunlight caught his eye—something that sparkled like diamonds but was not. The fractured glass on the floor was from the shattered pane on his locked gun-case door, where he kept several sidearms, five rifles, two carbines, a double-barrel (over-and-under) 12-gauge shotgun. Not anymore. The shotgun and a .44-caliber revolver were missing, along with a box of 12-gauge buckshot and two boxes of ammo for the pistol. Moon held his breath.
Whoever did this is intending to conduct some serious business. And he might still be in the house.

Which reminded him of what had happened to Hermann Wetzel.

The Ute removed his boots, slipped his .357 magnum revolver from its holster. Stepping softly, Moon searched every room in the headquarters, every closet, even the pantry. No one at home. That fact was worrisome enough. What made his skin prickle was what he found in Sarah Frank’s bedroom. Her little black leather purse had been turned upside down, the contents spilled all over her neatly made bed. A pink plastic compact. Sunrise Surprise lipstick. A tiny bottle of perfume. A lace-edged hankie. Two cheap ballpoint pens. A wallet stuffed with snapshots. The critical issue was the item that was missing.

The keys to Sarah’s F-150 pickup.

The tribal investigator imagined what had happened:
Jake Harper came here to get his girlfriend, broke into the gun cabinet, and stole the keys for Sarah’s truck. Nancy’s probably behind the F-150 wheel right now. Down the road someplace, they plan to ditch his hot Jeep—

But wait a minute.

Where are Daisy and Sarah?
Moon’s hands were cold as marble.
Maybe he took some hostages.

Grim-faced as he had ever been, the tribal investigator holstered the heavy pistol and headed for the west porch.
It’s my fault. I should have seen this coming. Oh, God—if Sarah and Daisy are still alive, please keep ’em that way till I can get there and—

This prayer was interrupted by the sweetest sounds he had ever heard.

Sarah’s outraged scream: “Hey—where’s my truck!”

Daisy’s response: “One of them knot-head cowboys probably drove it into town to pick up a sportin’ woman at some smelly saloon with brass spittoons and sawdust on the floor.”

Sidewinder: Two and a half barks, presumably to affirm his agreement with the Ute elder.

The astonished females gawked at the tall, lean man in his stocking feet who burst through the door, leaped off the porch, and approached in a dead run to grab one of them in each arm.

Tears streamed down Charlie Moon’s face.

When Daisy—who had not been hugged that hard in her entire life—was finally able to extricate herself, she flailed her arms and squawked, “What the hell is going on?”

Moon looked to the heavens and laughed. “Somebody stole Sarah’s pickup.”

The old woman glowered at her nephew. “Well, why didn’t you say so right off—if we’d have known, me and the girl would’ve had us a good belly laugh too!”

One Minute Later

When the telephone jingled on the desk in his second-floor office, Scott Parris was enjoying a brand-new CD. It was an off-label issue and there were no instruments—the performers were a local female-male duo, and though neither one could hold a tune in a five-gallon bucket, their a cappella performance was gripping. The chief of police had expressly told the day dispatcher (a rookie), “No calls unless it’s my girlfriend or there’s a national emergency.” He pressed the Pause button on the CD player, snatched up the telephone, heard Moon’s deep voice booming at him.

The abbreviated story that the rancher told might have been headlined
CRIME ON THE COLUMBINE
. Bottom line: firearms stolen, also a motor vehicle.

Parris jotted notes on a yellow pad. “Got it, Charlie. Hold on a sec.” He punched the Intercom button, instructed dispatch to set up a GCPD roadblock twenty-five miles this side of the Columbine Ranch gate and to ask the state police to plug the jug on the other end. While the dispatcher was saying “yes sir” he shut off the intercom and jammed the telephone hard against his ear. “Please tell me that Sarah and Daisy are okay.” A pause while he did not breathe. “That’s great news, Charlie—and don’t you worry, we’ll arrest the Yazzi girl in a few minutes.” He chuckled. “Hey, how far can she get in that shiny red pickup?”

Two issues are of interest.

Number one: As it happened, the birthday pickup was farther along than Scott Parris had assumed. The roadblocks would be of no use.

Number two: Note that the chief of police said, “Hey, how far can
she
get. . . .” Did Scott Parris assume that Nancy Yazzi was alone in the stolen vehicle? Yes indeed.

As the chief of police would now inform Charlie Moon, the CD he had been listening to when the Ute called featured two “persons of interest” in the Hermann Wetzel homicide—i.e., Jake Harper and Nancy Yazzi. Shortly after Moon had departed to examine the carcass of the calf that had served as the cougar’s midnight snack, and at about the time that Daisy and Sarah had left for their educational outing along the river, Miss Yazzi had placed her seventh call to Mr. Harper. Six-plus-one was evidently her lucky number. On this occasion, after peering suspiciously at the caller ID, Mr. Harper had answered his cell phone. The following transcript (from official GCPD files) is a verbatim account of the brief exchange:

“H’lo, Nance.”

“Jakey—are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” (Grunt.) “Where you callin’ from, Peachy Pie?”

“I’m still at the Columbine Ranch. D’you know where that is?”

“Sure.”

“Look—I’ve got to get away from here.”

“Uh—right.” (Burp.) “You want me to come get you tonight?”

“No. I’ll have my own wheels. Now listen close, Jakey—I don’t want to say the name of the place on the phone, but let’s meet at that restaurant where you took me last Valentine’s Day.”

Three-second pause.

“Uh . . .”

“Jakey!”

“The McDonald’s down at Durango?”

“No! Remember where we shared that great barbecue plate?”

“Uh . . .”

“I bet you haven’t forgot that redhead waitress who was old enough to be your momma. The slut was wearing a see-through
blouse about the size of a dinner napkin. she called you ‘Honey Bunch.’ ”

“Oh—right.”

“You sure you know which place I’m talking about?”

“Yeah. That damn barbecue kept me up half the night.”

“I’ll meet you there. This afternoon.”

“Okay, Peachy Pie.”

“See you.”

(Click.)

(Click.)

Where Has Nancy Gone in Sarah’s Pickup?

Before addressing that pressing question, which is on the minds of Sarah Frank, Daisy Perika, Charlie Moon, Chief of Police Scott Parris, and a dozen GCPD coppers plus enough Colorado State Police to fill every Dunkin’ Donuts in Denver, Colorado Springs, Pueblo—and Crested Butte to boot—let us back up a few minutes.

At the instant when Scott Parris and Charlie Moon terminated their telephone conversation, Miss Yazzi, having already passed through Granite Creek, was precisely 12.3 miles south of that fair city.

But that had been twenty-two minutes ago. At present, she was 36.1 miles south of Granite Creek, turning off the main highway onto a “scenic byway” that would take her into an unpleasant little depression between the mountains that hopeful locals call Pleasant Valley. After winding along the north bank of a meager little stream, the red pickup crossed into the adjacent county, which was named after one Zebulon Montgomery Pike, who also had a sizable mountain peak named after his fine self.

In this new jurisdiction, the road abruptly changed from “blacktop with potholes” to “gravel with bigger potholes.” By and by, Nancy Y found herself a straight place in the road that extended to yon cloud-shrouded ridge. Her destination was a forlorn little hamlet known by folks thereabouts as Hamlet’s
Crossroads. At this intersection of gravel lanes, there were four cinder-block buildings, each occupying its assigned quadrant. Hamlet’s Service Station. Hamlet’s Stop-n-Shop. Hamlet’s Barber Shop. Hamlet’s Cowboy Saloon. The proud owner of this prosperous quartet was one Hamlet Anderson, aka “Ham.” Of particular interest to Nancy was the latter enterprise, which served fair-to-middling barbecue.

She braked the F-150, eyed the motley assembly of motor vehicles scattered higgledy-piggledy about the Cowboy Saloon. There was the predicable selection of pickups, ranging from a 1957 Chevy that had been brush-painted a dreadful shade of green to a brand-new Dodge with dual rear wheels and chrome exhausts. Also a big GMC stake-bed, a 1964 red-and-white VW bus, a white Qwest Communications van, a matched pair of black Harley-Davidson hogs, and . . . a nifty little Ford SUV that seemed oddly out of place. Nancy did not notice the Escape. The intended object of her intense concentration was Jake Harper’s Jeep—which was not present and accounted for.

Quick intake of breath as she turned into the dirt driveway, parked beside the Harleys.
Maybe Jake changed his mind and isn’t coming after all. Or maybe he’s just late, like he usually is.
She cut the ignition.
I’ll just have to wait for him.

Her wait would not be a lengthy one.

The engine had barely shut down when Mr. Harper opened the driver-side door and slipped in beside her. “Hi ya, Peachy Pie!”

Nancy let out a squeaky little shriek. “Jakey—where’d you come from?”

Being somewhat of a wit, he was sorely tempted to reply,
Fort Worth,
which was the city of his birth. Instead, he said, “I been here for almost an hour.”

She looked around the parking lot. “Where’s your Jeep?”

“That Wrangler’s hot as two-dollar pistol. I got it stashed where I’ve been holed up.”

“What’re you driving?”

“Something I found in a garage.” He patted the seat. “Where’d you get this nice truck?”

“I borrowed it.”

“From who?”

Suddenly confronted by the image of an outraged Sarah Frank, Nancy felt a pang of guilt. “From a friend.”

“Wish I had a friend like that.” Harper scratched his beard. “Why’re you wearing that great big raincoat?” This was not an idle query. It was not raining, and the man had not seen his main squeeze for some days now and just as many nights, and it irked him that the shapely form was concealed in the bulky covering.

Ignoring this reasonable question, Main Squeeze posed one of her own: “Did you find Hermann’s money under the heat thingy?”

“Uh . . . afraid not.” Harper felt his face blush. “Way things turned out, there wasn’t time to look. I’d just got into the house when the shooting started and—”

“Shut up, Jake!”

Unless your companion is deaf, and Nancy’s was definitely not, it is unnecessary to produce a 160-decibel remark inside the smallish cab of a standard F-150 pickup. The lady’s screech caused Jake’s left ear to ring, his diastolic pressure to rise, and blood to pool in his eyes. He turned a bushy-browed scowl on his sweetheart.

She lowered the volume. “I’m sorry, Jakey. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

They both knew that this was not 100 percent true.

Even so, Mr. Harper was mollified by the gesture. “That’s all right, Nance.” To demonstrate his sincerity, he leaned over to give her a little kiss on the cheek.

She turned, planted a big one square on his mouth. After their lips were disengaged, Nancy used hers to speak as softly as that proverbial warm twilight breeze which barely rustles willow leaves. “Jakey, I’m
glad
you killed Hermann, but I don’t want to hear a
single word
about it.” The sly woman-child cunningly twisted a lock of his scruffy beard into a stringy little strand. “Do you understand what I mean?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Don’t ‘but’ me, Jake!” She yanked the beard, pointed a sharp fingernail at his left eyeball. “Just try to wrap your brain around this
one simple fact
.” Hermann Wetzel’s stepdaughter spoke slowly, enunciating each syllable. “I don’t want to know
anything
about the shooting.”

“Well, all right—” Jake Harper caught himself barely in time to avoid committing another
but
. But he was no dunce and he understood well enough.
Nancy’s afraid I might tell her something she don’t want to know and then she might became a
. . . What was that fancy legal lingo the TV lawyers used?
An excessory after the fax? No, that don’t sound right.

She shifted quickly to another subject: “So where’ve you been hiding out?”

“Some rich guy’s house up on Muleshoe Mountain.”

She blinked.
Even Jake can’t be that dumb.
“So close to Granite Creek?”

“It’s a great place to hole up—loaded with fancy food and top-rate booze.” He pointed at the Escape. “And the nice rich dude lent me his car.” To this small piece of wit, Jake appended a small chuckle.

Nancy Yazzi drew in a deep breath. “Since
that night
—have you talked to anyone besides me?”

He grinned at this unfathomable female “Like who, Peachy Pie?”

“Oh, one of your buddies. Spike, maybe. Or Spider.”

“Nah, I don’t trust them bozos.” Harper snorted. “If there was a ten-dollar reward out on me, they’d give me up faster’n you could say ‘Peter Pepper picked a pint of pickled pipers.’ ”

“Then you didn’t telephone anyone?”

“Nah.”

“Not even your mother?”