Snake Dreams (28 page)

The Ute elder smiled at the pliable child’s skinny backside.
She could grow up to be just like me.

THE TRUCK
started right up and they pulled away from the Columbine headquarters without incident. Things seemed to be going their way, which is to say that no startled cowboy assigned to guard duty came running after them yelling,
Hey—where do you two think you’re goin’!
As they proceeded along the miles of dirt lane toward the paved highway, there was not the slightest indication that the same irate cowboy had cranked up his assigned motor vehicle and was following them.

But he had. And was.

After they passed through the ranch gate and Sarah made a left to aim the vehicle toward Granite Creek, the road in front of them was clear of traffic as far as the eye could see. Both driver and passenger believed that they were in for clear sailing.

What Sarah had in mind was a quick trip into town, then back to the Columbine hours before sundown. Charlie Moon would be none the wiser.

Escapades of almost any sort are considerable morale boosters for teenagers with the blues, and
getting away with something
that feels just a little bit dangerous is great fun, so Sarah was feeling pretty good for the first time since that other teenager had heisted her pickup truck. Sad to say, the innocent lass did not realize that she had fallen under a Dark Influence.

Ever so pleased with herself, Daisy Perika began to flesh out her plot for finding Hermann Wetzel’s money.

On the Road Again

After stopping at a bakery in Salida to purchase a brown paper bag of breakfast, Charlie Moon and Scott Parris were rolling east on Route 50 toward Cañon City.

Accustomed to doing the driving himself, Moon was enjoying this rare time in the passenger seat. He held a steaming cup of sugary black coffee in his left hand, a warm-from-the-oven thickly glazed apple fritter in the other. The satisfied diner paused between a slurp and a chomp to cast a glance at the driver. “So what’s the latest on Nancy and her boyfriend?”

“Telephone tap hasn’t picked up anything since their conversation about meeting in some restaurant. Pueblo PD are making all the usual checks, but it’s not likely Nancy’s still in town.” Parris slowed as a lame old dog limped across the road. “There’ve been reports of one or the other of ’em all over Colorado. And there’ve been sightings in Arizona, Wyoming, Kansas, Utah, New Mexico, and Michigan.”

“Michigan?”

“Why not?” Parris shrugged. “Those two could be in Alaska by now.”

Moon emptied the Styrofoam cup.

A magpie who had been dining on feathered roadkill took flight. It may have been this small incident that reminded the driver of something unpleasant.

Except for the hum of new tires, a mile passed in silence. Then another.

Finally, Parris steeled himself and said, “Charlie, I need to talk to you about something that’s, well—personal.”

“Pardner, if you don’t mind—I’d rather not hear about stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Intimate stuff you should only discuss with your family physician.”

Parris set the formidable jaw that his girlfriend (an anthropologist) considered “quasi-Neanderthal.” It took some time for the caveman to get up sufficient courage to make the admission. “I’m worried that my mind is going soft.”

Moon choked on a chunk of pastry.

Parris gripped the steering wheel. “Last night, I dreamed that I was a chicken farmer in Florida.” For specificity, he added, “Key West.”

“Sounds like a fine way to while away your declining years.”

Parris shook his head. “It was extremely weird—I was raising genetically modified Rhode Island Reds.” Reliving the nightmare, Parris shuddered. “Those Reds all had two heads. And four legs.”

Moon mulled this over. “I don’t know that there’s much of a market for chicken heads in Florida—unless it’d be in the Haitian voodoo trade. But you’d have the drumstick market cornered in no time flat.”

Parris was not amused. “When I woke up in the middle of that dream, for a few seconds I laid there flat on my back, trying to remember—do chickens have four legs; or only two?”

“Well don’t leave me in suspense—which was it?”

“This ain’t funny, Charlie.”

“Sorry, pard.”
Now he’ll come up with some way to get even.

A mile down the road, the town cop said, “Oh, by the way—have you managed to patch things up with your lady friend?”

Caught off guard, Moon took this one square on the chin. “Patch what things up?”

“How would I know?” Parris was feeling much better. “But word is, she’s pretty ticked off at you over something or other.”

“Is that a fact?”

The rumormonger nodded. “From what I hear—not long after you left her standing in the Silver Mountain lobby, Special Agent McTeague checked out of the hotel. Headed straight for the airport.”

Charlie Moon forced a smile. “That’s what Lila Mae did all right. And she had a good reason to leave town that night.”
I wish I knew what it was.

The driver nodded. “Bureau business, I expect.” The cop glanced at his passenger. “Then you two ain’t on the outs—you’re still talking to each other?”

“I called her last night.”
Twice. Got her answering machine both times.
He had not left a message.

This exchange was interrupted by the buzz of Moon’s cell phone. He checked the caller ID. “What’s up, Butch?”

Little Butch Cassidy’s voice boomed in his ear: “Thought you ought to know, boss—your aunt and the girl left the Columbine a while ago. The kid drove off in one of your pickups.”

“Where are they now?”

“Headed toward Granite Creek. I’m about a half mile back, so they don’t know they’ve got a tail.” Cassidy was not your typical Columbine employee—the former museum curator had several university degrees and an intellect to match. But he had given up everything to fulfill his childhood ambition, which was to become a sure-enough cowboy. During his several semesters at the Columbine Cowboy School, Butch had cleaned horse stables, ridden a sullen little mare to check and mend fences, cleared brush with the Farmall tractor and Bush Hog, assisted pregnant Herefords during troublesome deliveries, injected frisky calves with antibiotics, and generally surprised his skeptical comrades by passing with a B-plus average. Now he was playing at private eye. What a life.

“Thanks for the heads-up.” Moon had lost interest in his sugary breakfast. “Keep a close eye on ’em.”

As the Ute pocketed the telephone, Parris inquired, “Problem?”

“It’s Butch’s turn to look after Aunt Daisy.”

“So what’s she up to this time?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Hey, how much trouble could a tired old woman cause?” After letting that hang in the air, the chief of police added with a smirk, “Things get really nasty, the governor could declare martial law.”

AS THE
borrowed Columbine pickup chugged along toward Granite Creek, Daisy Perika had developed a distinctly uneasy sensation that something was wrong. She could not see anything worrisome in the door-mounted mirror—just the big Mayflower van that had followed them for the past few miles. But this seasoned veteran of countless conflicts had developed a habit of acting on her instincts. If Daisy had been trudging along a deer path in Cañón del Espíritu, she would have stepped into a cluster of the willows by the stream and waited to see if another creature was soft-footing it along behind her. Perhaps an old cougar who figured that the elderly Ute was easier pickings than a swift-footed mule deer. She reached over to touch the youthful driver’s elbow. “Turn in at that big truck stop down there on the right.”

Sarah slowed to make the turn.
I bet she needs to go to the bathroom.

Daisy pointed. “Go around back, where all those big trucks are.”

As they bumped across the graveled parking lot, Sarah noticed that the fuel gauge was reading a tad below the quarter-tank mark. Which provided the brand-new driver with an opportunity for another first. “I’d better put some gas in the tank.”

“Not right now.” Daisy pointed at an eighteen-wheeler loaded with irrigation pipe. “Pull up behind that big red truck.”

Sarah shot a worried look at the tribal elder. Aunt Daisy had no qualms about relieving herself wherever it was convenient.
Oh my—I hope she doesn’t intend to go
outside. “Uh—are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine as frog hair—now shut the engine off.”

Sarah watched the enigmatic woman—purse hanging from the crook of her left arm, oak staff in her right hand—grunt and groan her way out of the pickup. Her worst fears seemed justified when Daisy went to peer around the cab of the huge semi, as if to confirm that no one was likely to invade her privacy. The mortified girl prayed,
Oh please, God. Please don’t let her pee right here in the parking lot where somebody might see her. Please please please!

Teenagers are a sensitive lot.

Sarah’s apprehension was transformed to relief when Daisy toddled off toward Hoke’s Truck Stop. The grateful youth tagged along, hands clasped under her chin.
Thank you thank you thank you!

The successful roadside business was housed in a one-acre-square, steel-paneled building with a multitude of large windows and double doors on all sides. In addition to twenty-one fuel-pump stations (a dozen out front, nine behind), Hoke’s various departments provided almost everything a tourist might need or desire, including jackalope picture postcards, road maps for all fifty states plus Mexico and Canada, a line of high-quality automotive supplies, sundry over-the-counter medications, a two-chair barbershop where Mrs. Hoke and her brother-in-law wielded old-fashioned shears and electric clippers with frightful enthusiasm, a convenience store stocked with essential groceries and a thirty-foot magazine rack, and, best of all—the old-time café that dished out Hoke’s Famous Oklahoma Barbecue. The mouthwatering chopped-brisket sandwiches attracted gourmands from neighboring states. Not only that, the spacious restrooms were clean and functional.

As they entered the rear door, Sarah Frank caught a delicious scent from the restaurant kitchen.

Daisy Perika headed across the convenience store to a fly-specked
window that faced the highway. The wary old woman peered through the glass, looking for she knew not what. She observed traffic going this way and that, lots of people pumping gas and wiping at dusty windshields with squares of blue paper, but she saw nothing that looked the least bit suspicious.
Well, if there was somebody following us, he ain’t there now.
If she had gotten to the window a mere six seconds earlier, Daisy would have seen Butch’s Columbine pickup pass by on the highway, and the sight would have caused her to gnash the aged bicuspids and feel the bile rising in her throat. As it was, she felt a tug on her sleeve, and turned to see Sarah’s hopeful expression.

“Could we please go into the restaurant and get something to eat?”

“We just finished breakfast a while ago.” Daisy lifted her nose, took a sniff.
But that barbecue does smell good.

ABOUT A
mile beyond Hoke’s, Butch passed the Mayflower van and was puzzled by what he saw in front of him. Aside from miles of empty straight-as-an-arrow two-lane—not a thing.
That little Indian girl drives slow as sap running down a cedar stump
[this was dandy cowboy talk he had picked up],
so I don’t see how she could have got out of sight so fast.
Which raised the question:
What is going on here?
The answer came in a flash. He braked, did a neck-jerking U-turn, and headed for that truck stop where he frequently enjoyed the famous barbecue sandwiches.