The Widow's Revenge (15 page)

As is so often the case, this complaint was both uncharitable and unjustified.

At twenty minutes past midnight, an energetic, no-nonsense RN showed up with papers from the employment agency. The replacement apologized for being late, and was provided with a briefing that included an introduction to the state-police officer who was night guard for the two patients in adjoining end-of-the hall rooms. The policeman explained that the pair had been arrested in connection with the notorious ABC Hardware Store robbery. John Doe Number 1, aka “Dagwood,” was lightly sedated and had his broken jaw wired shut. John Doe Number 2 (“Dilbert”) was fully conscious and able to speak, but had little to say aside from: “I don’t know anything about any robbery. Don’t even know why I’m here. Can’t remember a solitary thing—not even my name.”

After exchanging pleasantries with the uniformed cop, the nurse got to work on such essential tasks as waking patients from restful slumbers to dispense prescribed sleep medications. The stand-in also managed to calm the injured truck driver in room 208, who complained that the powerful opiate being dispensed via his IV “. . . isn’t doin’ a damn thing
about this awful pain in my left foot.” After reminding the drugged-tothe-gills accident victim that his left leg had been amputated at the knee, the nurse explained the curious phenomenon of phantom pain and assured the man that the dull ache could be alleviated by a cold compress on his forehead, which it did. The medical profession has barely begun to plumb the remarkable efficacy of the placebo effect.

2:10 A.M.

State Police Officer Henry Joyce, who had been reading a tattered copy of Christopher Morley’s
The Haunted Bookshop
, had not heard the almost soundless approach of the rubber-soled footsteps. He was mildly surprised to look up from a yellowed page to see the efficient practitioner of practical medicine carrying a stainless steel tray that was partially covered by a white cotton towel. The cop yawned. “What’ve you got—a tasty little late-night snack for my bad guys?”

The substitute nurse smiled back. “Afraid not. What I’m dispensing won’t be so pleasant as cookies and milk.”

“Great big hypodermic, huh?”

Great big smile. “Something like that.”

“Well, I hope you stick ’em deep and make it hurt.” Joyce laid his book on another chair. “I’ll have to check out the tray before you go into their rooms. Sorry, rules and all that.”

No objection was made to this understandable requirement. On the contrary, the nurse had intended all along to
demonstrate
the procedure that was (allegedly) about to be carried out on the survivors of the botched ABC Hardware Store robbery. Whether or not the cop’s curiosity was completely satisfied remains open to speculation, but this much can be said with certainty—Officer Joyce made no effort to prevent the nurse from entering either room.

WHEREVER THAT THREE-DIGIT NUMBER IS DIALED—BE IT NEW YORK
City, Houston, Los Angeles, or Granite Creek, Colorado—the response is reasonably predictable.

In that serene tone that suggests that in the
big picture
all is right with the world, the voice says something more or less like, “Police. What is the nature of your emergency?”

About nine times out of ten, the trouble reported by the citizen represents no more than a mere flicker in the space-time continuum. The dime her two-year-old swallowed will pass through his digestive tract without ill effect. An officer will be dispatched to deal with the drunken party next door. The smoke you smell is not evidence that your apartment building is going up in flames; it has drifted in from a wildfire in an adjacent state. And then there is call number ten. But even if your husband is choking to death on a chicken bone or some wild-eyed lunatic wielding a carving knife has broken into your home in the middle of the night, never fear—the legally constituted authorities are more than able to deal with the situation. It was in this confident manner that the GCPD dispatcher took the 911 call at 3:05
A.M.
“Granite Creek Police. What is the nature of your emergency?”

For a moment, the only sound on the line was that of someone inhaling a breath. Holding it. Sucking it in again. Then, a raspy woman’s voice: “The nature of my emergency? Hey, I don’t know
what
the hell’s going on.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf as a stone? I said—” the caller was jittering right on the edge of hysteria, “that I don’t know what the hell’s going on!”

“Yes, I heard you.”
She’s scared out of her gourd.
A few simple questions usually did the trick. “Please give me your name.”

“Peggy.” A cough. “Uh, Peggy Rosenthal.”

“Okay, that’s good. Now tell me where you’re calling from.”

“The hospital. Snyder Memorial.”

That tallied with the caller ID on the computer monitor. “Are you employed at the hospital, or are you a patient?” Snyder Memorial had a psychiatric ward.

“I’m a nurse in ER, but right now I’m in ICU.” A pitiful whimpering. “I came to find out why nobody up here was answering the phone.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.
“So what’s the problem?”

Silence.

“Peggy—are you there?”

“Yeah. I’m here.” A moan. “All by myself.”

Either she’s nuts or something really bad has gone down.
“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Another indrawn breath, which was exhaled as a sigh. “They’re dead.”

The dispatcher frowned at her computer monitor. “Who’s dead?”

“All of them.” The sound of a fist banging on something, over and over. “Oh, God—maybe this isn’t
real.
Maybe it’s an awful nightmare—maybe I’m asleep.” The caller began to weep. Between wrenching sobs: “Or maybe I’m going stone crazy!”

“Peggy—are you all right?”

“No, you bone-headed idiot, I’m not all right! How could I be—there are dead people all around me!” The nurse made a choking-gurgling sound, then managed to compose herself. “I’m sorry. I’m just overwhelmed by all this . . . this . . .”

“That’s all right, dear. Now tell me who’s dead.”

“They’re
all
dead!”

“Yes. I understand. But could you give me some names?”

The caller was no longer listening. “I don’t have any idea who killed them—or why—or even how!” The ER nurse’s voice dropped to a suspicious whisper. “There’s not a mark on the bodies—not a
mark.”
Five seconds of dead silence. “You want my professional opinion, I’ll give it to you—I believe every one of them was
poisoned
!”

“Please don’t hang up, Peggy. I’ll dispatch officers right away.”

IT WAS LATE MORNING WHEN SARAH FRANK HEARD THE APPROACHING
vehicle. Visitors of any stripe were a welcome novelty during her long, quiet days on the Columbine. Most of the time. Precisely how such premonitions occur remains an impenetrable mystery, but from somewhere deep within Sarah’s budding feminine intuition, warnings began to bubble up. They were to the point, and terse.
Unwanted company. Intruder.
And worse still . . .
Competitor.

Thus alerted, the slender wisp of a girl hurried to a Columbine headquarters parlor window. She pulled the curtains aside just in time to see a shiny new automobile rumbling over the Too Late Creek bridge. The gray sedan was unknown to the Ute-Papago orphan, but not the tall, statuesque brunette who got out of it, slammed the door, and headed to the west porch.
She’s come to see Charlie.
And would soon be knocking on the front door.

Unnerved by the sudden appearance of this world-class rival for the affections of Mr. Moon, the seventeen-year-old girl ran headlong across the parlor, down the dark hallway, and into the dining room, where she quickly concealed herself in the shadowy coolness.

No sooner was Sarah hidden than she heard the sound of the determined lady’s knuckles rapping against the three-inch-thick 1870s-era oak door that could stop a flint-tipped Arapaho arrow or a .44 caliber pistol bullet.

Feeling like a fool, the girl closed her eyes.
This is totally stupid—I can’t just stand here in the dark.

McTeague knocked again.

I’ll have to go let her in.
Sarah clenched her fists.
But what’ll I say—
“Hello, Miss McTeague, it’s so nice to see you”?
No, that wouldn’t do.
How about:
“Oh, you must be looking for Charlie. I’m so sorry, he’s gone for a few days. Where? Oh, to Wyoming, I think it was—or maybe Montana.
” No, that was another string of lies, even worse than
“it’s so nice to see you.”
And God expected a person to stick strictly to the truth.

Steeling herself for a confrontation with this archenemy, Sarah had already abandoned her place of concealment when she heard Charlie Moon’s cowboy boots clomping down the stairway. She watched him stride across the parlor to open the door.

Half expecting a visit from Scott Parris, the smile Moon wore for greeting his best friend slipped away when he saw Lila Mae. Her face was chalky gray.
Something’s wrong.

Something was. The FBI agent was about to tell him about it when she noticed the slim girl hovering at the far end of the parlor like a shy ghost. As Sarah withdrew soundlessly into the hallway, the fed said, “We have to talk, Charlie. Someplace private.” McTeague’s strained voice suggested a bone-dry, bent-double cottonwood branch that was about to snap. “I have something to tell you.”

“Let’s go upstairs.” He led the way.
I’ve got something to tell you.

Sarah, who was peeking around the corner as they ascended the stairs, stared in stunned disbelief. Charlie’s bedroom was on the second floor.
He never takes women up there
. As far as she knew.
Well, he never takes
me
up there.
On the other hand . . .
I guess I should mind my own business.
But wait a danged minute—Charlie Moon
was
her business, and Job One was to make sure the competition didn’t muscle in and take over!

Action was called for.

Almost before she knew it, Sarah was sneak-creeping up the stairs. What would she do when she got there?
If they see me, I’ll just say, “Would you like some coffee? I’ll be glad to make a fresh pot and bring you some.”
At the instant her eyes were even with the upstairs hallway floor, Sarah heard Charlie Moon close his office door.
Rats!
But there was this consolation:
At least Charlie didn’t take her into his bedroom.
Not yet. But with a woman like
that
, they might end up there in a few minutes. She continued the sneak-creeping. This time, along the upstairs hallway. Inch by inch, she went. Ever closer to the closed office door.
Sarah couldn’t hear a word they said. There was the tempting keyhole, fairly
begging
to be peeked through. Not that she would ever stoop to such a petty misdeed.

MOON INVITED
his guest to sit on an old, scruffy-looking, delightfully comfortable leather couch. “What’s up?”

Special Agent McTeague plopped herself down. “I hardly know where to begin.” She had opened her mouth to give it a try, when—

What was this? Aha—another rumble on the Too Lake Creek bridge.

“That will probably be Scott Parris,” McTeague said. “Let’s wait until he gets here before I tell you what’s happened.”

“Fine with me.” Moon remained standing. “In the meantime, I’ve got something to tell you.”

“About what?”

“The name I heard mentioned in the hardware store.”

Oh, please, God!
The FBI agent held her breath. Prayed that he would say—

“Trout. That’s what the bad guy asked me—‘Did Trout send you?’ ”

“Yes!” McTeague vaulted off the couch and raised her fists in a victorious gesture. “Trout is the top dog in the Family—the one who plans the jobs and calls the shots. Good work, Charlie!”

“You sound just like my first-grade schoolteacher.” Moon grinned. “Do I get a shiny gold star on my forehead?”

Better than that.
Just as Sarah Frank put her eye to the keyhole
, the lady grabbed the long, lanky cowboy by the neck and pasted a big, enthusiastic kiss—square on his lips!

Charlie Moon stood there and took it like a man.

The keyhole peeker gasped; her heart
stopped
. And started up again.

Releasing the startled man from her embrace, the FBI agent placed a call to the Denver FBI Field Office. The SAC’s digital recorder advised the caller to leave a brief message. “This is Special Agent McTeague. Mr. Moon has tied Trout to the hardware-store robbery. More later.”