Snake Dreams (36 page)

THE GRANITE
Creek chief of police turned into the Wetzel driveway, braked to a stop near the front porch, and got out to watch Charlie Moon arrive in Sarah’s red pickup. Without exchanging a word, the good friends took a hard look at the official yellow tape, labeled in large, bold letters:
POLICE–DO NOT CROSS
. Knox’s description “messed with” was a euphemism bordering on rash understatement. The tape had been ripped
from across the front door and tossed onto the porch to curl up and rattle in the breeze. The Miss Muntzes of this world are ever so tidy. This messy, in-your-face infraction had “Daisy Perika” written all over it.

Charlie Moon shook his head. It was not as if Aunt Daisy set out with the intention of creating havoc. Her penchant for causing trouble was more like . . . a gift.

A half-dozen molars in Scott Parris’s massive jawbone were clenched hard enough to produce hairline cracks in the enamel. The already elevated blood pressure was edging up toward that bright red section of the dial marked
DANGER
. What made him so doggoned angry was not so much the
fact
of the unauthorized entry into the house where the homicide had occurred, or even the brazenness of the act. If the intruders were ordinary malefactors, there would be a ready remedy. What made Parris’s blood boil and his teeth ache was that Daisy Perika was undoubtedly responsible for egging the mild-mannered little Miss Muntz into collaborating in the misdemeanor. That and the fact that Charlie Moon’s irascible aunt was simply impossible to deal with. So now that he was here . . .
What should I do?
Or to put it another way:
What
can
I do?
Or still another way:
How can I just walk away from this without looking like an idiot?

As if he had posed the questions aloud, the answer was provided verbally.

“Pardner, if I was you—I’d forget about this.”

Though enormously grateful for this face-saving suggestion, Parris turned to scowl at his buddy. “Oh, you would, would you?”

Moon nodded.

Parris kicked at a chunk of white gravel. “Tell me why.”

“First of all, whatever damage is done can’t be fixed.”

“Okay. What’s second of all?”

“Well, there’s a slim chance that Daisy might’ve learned something important from the landlady about Wetzel or his stepdaughter. But if you go read the riot act to her, she won’t tell you a thing.”

The cop pretended to think it over. “Okay, Charlie. For the time being, I’ll play it your way.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“I hope not.” The overworked chin jutted again. “But Daisy can’t keep on messing in police business and getting away with it.”

“That’s the spirit!” Moon patted him on the back. “Next time she spits on the sidewalk, throw the whole doggone book at her.”

“Right.”
That’ll be the day
. But his jaw was relaxed and the blood pressure was drifting down toward that orange section labeled
CAUTION
.

What the burned-out lawman figured he needed was a nice quiet vacation in a pleasant retreat that came equipped with warm ocean breezes, stately palm trees, soothing sounds of softly strummed guitars, the heady scent of exotic tropical flowers . . .
tropical flowers. Flowers. Daisies.
He scowled. No, this would be a Daisy-free zone. Which reminded Parris that it was high time he put some distance between the tribal elder and himself, which he did. But not before reminding Charlie Moon that he must have a stern face-to-face with the aged auntie, explain how breaking yellow tape labeled
POLICE—DO NOT CROSS
was frowned upon in their fair city.

Now anyone who knows Charlie Moon will tell you the Ute is a man that a friend can count on. Like those resolute Roman soldiers who stood their posts even as Mount Vesuvius exploded in a pyroclastic eruption over doomed Pompeii, the stalwart tribal investigator would remain behind to do his duty.

For about thirty seconds.

Which, after Parris’s official vehicle slipped out of sight, was how long it took Mr. Moon to conclude that there was no point in informing Aunt Daisy that she had broken the law. She already knew that, and had undoubtedly ripped away the official yellow tape with considerable gusto.
She’d just laugh in my face. Which would give her considerable satisfaction and me a bad case of aggravation.
Moon could imagine any number of experiences that would be more fun than exchanging
words with the elderly relative. Such as . . .
gouging out my eyeball with a rusty tablespoon.

The alternative to a confrontation with the cantankerous auntie was a strategic withdrawal. There was no shame in it. After all, hadn’t the Dunkirk option worked just fine for Winston Churchill and the beleaguered troops? Certainly. And the British Expeditionary Force had survived to fight when the conditions were more favorable. It helped that Moon’s withdrawal would accomplish another, more noble goal.
I’ll drive the ranch truck they came in away with my spare key, and leave Sarah’s pickup here for her to find—with the copy of Nancy Yazzi’s apology on the driver’s seat.
Which was what he did.

WHEN SARAH
emerged a few minutes later to find her recovered birthday gift waiting by the curb, the teenager was ecstatic. There were no cartwheels or backflips, but her happy shriek could be heard a quarter mile away, where Charlie Moon had parked the less attractive member of the F-150 family.

Why was the tribal investigator hanging around? Because he intended to follow the red pickup to ensure that Sarah and Daisy returned safely to the Columbine.

Also, to hear the earsplitting shriek. This was the main reason.

Knox and Slocum’s Excellent Adventure

Approximately twenty minutes after sarah Frank’s super-ecstatic shriek, E. C. “Piggy” Slocum was piloting the GCPD black-and-white and Eddie Knox was in charge of communications. When the dispatcher put in a routine call to unit 240, Slocum’s partner snatched the microphone. “What’ve you got for us, Clara?”

“Neighbor reports vandalism at the Roger Grilly residence. It’s one of those summer homes on Muleshoe Mountain. Address is 980 Forest Road 1040; sign by the driveway says Roger’s Roost. Caller was walking his dog when he noticed a broken window in a door on the lower level.”

“Was the caller a neighbor?”

“Probably, but I don’t have an ID. Just as I asked his name, his cell-phone connection starting breaking up and I lost connection. The new computer’s acting up and didn’t record his cell number—Hold on Eddie. I’ve got another 911.”

After listening to Clara Tavishuts attempt to calm a hysterical woman whose aged Chihuahua (Mousie, aka Pookie) had just swallowed a cigar butt and was having a coughing fit, Knox hung up. “Well, you heard what she said, Pig—let’s motivate over to IRS Road.”

Slocum stepped on the gas, stuffed the last bite of doughnut into his mouth, brushed the powdered sugar off on his dark blue trousers, and said, “Obby fum bum kib fewwa wok.”

Knox nodded.
Piggy’s right—some halfwit juvenile delinquent probably tossed a rock through the window.
At the beginning of every shift, the gung-ho cop prayed for a crime he could really get his teeth into. A hostage situation or bank robbery topped off his wish list.

As he swallowed a mouthful of doughnut, Officer Slocum turned onto Forest Road 1040.

As was his standard practice on any call where there was the slightest prospect of encountering a felon who might put up a fight, Eddie Knox checked his revolver. All six cylinders were loaded for bear.

As GCPD unit 240 was nearing the high-altitude, multiple-level, thirty-eight-hundred-square-foot log mansion (eight bedrooms, seven baths) that Mr. and Mrs. Grilly humbly referred to as “the cabin,” Knox began to feel a tickling abdominal sensation, as if energetic spiders were playing volleyball in the pit of his stomach. Almost immediately, he received Alert Number Two, as the short hairs on the back of his neck bristled. As if these subliminal signals might be insufficient to get his attention, all five of his missing toes began to tingle. (The business about the absent appendages will be fleshed out later; the point at the moment is that the cop had an overwhelming premonition that there was something
dinky
about this call.) “Stop the car, Pig—block the driveway!”

Slocum skidded to a halt, glanced at his partner.
Uh-oh. Eddie’s got that “we’re about to have hell for breakfast” look in his eye.
Having no food in his mouth, he was able to enunciate clearly, “Whassup, Rocks?”

“I got a feeling this call ain’t about some run-of-the-mill vandalism.” Knox rested his meaty hand on the grip of his holstered pistol. “This is gonna turn out to be a break-in by a sure-enough bad guy.”

The driver frowned at the Grilly residence. “You figger he might still be in the house?”

I sure hope so.
Knox’s face split in that crooked grin that reminded his partner of a criminally insane chainsaw murderer in an old horror flick. Despite his reputation for being a
dim bulb, Slocum was not eager to shoot it out with a desperate felon. Moreover, the chubby cop knew the GCPD rule book by heart. “If the suspect is still on the premises, we’re supposed to put in a call for backup and sit tight till some of our guys show up.”

“Pig, we don’t know for sure anybody’s in the house—it’s just a little hunch I got.”
But he’s in there all right, and I’m gonna take him down without any sissy call for help
. “If it turns out he’s still inside, we’ll put in the call.”
But by then he’ll either be dead or wishin’ he was.
As the senior officer was getting out of the unit, Knox instructed his subordinate thusly: “You go around back, Pig—and make sure he don’t get away.”

Slocum used all the cover available to slip around to the rear of the house.

It shall be stipulated that Eddie “Rocks” Knox had not earned his nickname for carrying gravel in his pockets. There would be no slipping around for Knox. His practice in such situations was to march right up to the front door and kick it in. The point was to force the bad guy into a violent confrontation, during which Knox would put slugs one and two through the thug’s pump, the third right one between the eyes. He would reserve four through six in case there was a Thug Number Two. This straightforward tactic was what Knox had in mind when he approached the log house and paused to peer through a small window in one of the garage doors. Twilight was rapidly fading into night, so it was fortuitous that the day’s final reddish ray of sunlight passed helpfully over Knox’s shoulder and through the glazing to illuminate the backside of a muddy Jeep. It was also fortunate that there was not enough mud to conceal the letters and numbers on the license plate, which Eddie Knox and every other GCPD officer had committed to memory.

To assert that the bloodthirsty cop was pleased would be a flagrant act of understatement. Knox was transported into a state of pure, unadulterated bliss. Which is why he may be excused for garnishing his happy thoughts with a fragment from Jerry Lee Lewis.
Great balls of fire—that’s Jake Harper’s
Jeep!
He could hardly believe his luck.
Ten to one, Harper’s inside right now.
He unclipped a PSRCD (portable short-range communications device) from the assortment of nine essential items fastened to his equipment belt, pressed the button that would make Slocum’s matching PSRCD unit vibrate. Knox held his breath until he heard his partner’s hoarsely whispered, “Whassup, Eddie?”

Eddie K told him whassup: “Jake Harper’s Jeep’s in the garage.”

A low whistle, then: “You one-hundred-percent sure?”

Knox repeated the license number.

Slocum whistled again. This was a dangerous situation. “Harper shot Wetzel dead, so he’s probably packin’ right now.”

“I expect so.” Knox licked his lips.

Slocum was determined to go by the book. “We got to put a call in for some backup.”

“Not till we make sure he’s inside.”
But he’s there. I can feel it.

AND HE
was.

Jake Harper was a persistent fellow. Now
obsessed
with the notion of getting his hands on Hermann Wetzel’s hoard of cash money, the burglar had concluded that the Grilly residence was a good spot to lie low for another day or two, until he made one last attempt to retrieve the little black pouch from the dead man’s heat register. Which is why, when Knox and Slocum arrived to investigate the broken window, the felon was in the Grilly kitchen, enjoying scrambled eggs, marbledrye toast, imported English marmalade, and a fresh pot of Kona coffee.