The Widow's Revenge (30 page)

Thus prepared, all he had to do was step outside and wait for his guests to arrive.

Which he did.

JOB ONE

Still outfitted head-to-toe in black, Moon was one of a thousand shadows.

Not so the pale fellow crossing the yard.

The heel of the Ute’s right hand rested on the butt of his sidearm. Smith, he figured, would either be straightforward or subtle. Moon hoped for straightforward.
I’d as soon finish our business here and now
.

He was to be disappointed.

Bill Smith stopped at the west porch steps, called out in a booming baritone, “Hey, boss—you in there?”

The man shrouded in blackness waited.

The hired hand yelled again, “Anybody home?”

“I’m here,” Moon said.

Smith squinted at the spot on the porch where the voice had originated. “Mr. Moon—is that you?”

The disembodied voice spoke again: “The parlor door’s unlocked, Smith. Go on in.”

“Okay.” The middle-aged male employee stepped onto the porch and entered the headquarters.

Moon followed, closing the door behind them.

“What a helluva night!” Smith removed his wide-brimmed hat and slapped it on his thigh, wetting the oak floor with a spray of water. “First, the electricity craps out, then I hear gunshots, then there’s a big explosion and a hell-for-breakfast fire. What’s going on around here, boss?”

“I’ll be glad to tell you what little I know.” Moon pointed at the snap-crackling piñon. “Let’s go over to the fireplace.”

“Don’t mind if I do—that cold rain has given me a case of the shivers.”

Moon followed his employee across the parlor.

At the hearth, Smith turned to address the Indian. “What in hell caused that concrete block building to blow sky-high?”

“Wasn’t a lightning strike.”

“What was it, then?”

“Some outlaws touched off a fire.”

Smith stared at the Ute’s dark face, now semivisible in the flickering firelight. “You mean on purpose—like arson?”

“It’s more complicated than that.” Moon watched the man stiffen. “Sometime during the last day or two, one of those guys planted a couple of booby traps on my porch swing.”

Smith’s mouth gaped. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“I’ve never been more serious in my life.” Moon pointed at the chair by the hearth. “Take a load off, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Gunshots, biggest explosion I ever saw blows the roof off the machine shop—and now
booby traps
.” Smith was easing his bulk into the armchair. “This has been one of the damnedest nights I can ever remem—”
Oh, Lordy
.

Moon cocked his head. “What is it, Bill?”

Smith’s hard, gray face resembled chiseled limestone. He stared at the flickering fire. Without blinking.

His employer persisted. “You feeling all right?”

The stone man opened his mouth. Shut it.

“Well, I guess you just need to sit a spell.” Moon continued in a monotone: “But one of the rules of the house is that none of my employees brings loaded firearms inside, so I’ll relieve you of that iron.” The enforcer of rules reached under Smith’s faded denim jacket and pulled a snub-nosed, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver from a fringed leather holster.

There was no protest from the owner of the weapon, but beads of perspiration were forming on Bill Smith’s forehead. His heart hammered hard under his ribs.

As Moon got a closer look at the pistol, flickering firelight danced on the stainless steel. “Your friends in ABC Hardware carried fancy side-arms
exactly like this.” He aimed the lethal weapon at Smith’s left ear. “You might’ve had this cannon when you showed up on the Columbine, but I don’t think so. And I’m dead certain you didn’t bring those explosive contraptions I found under the blanket on my porch swing. So somebody brought ’em to you. Who was it?” He tapped the pistol barrel on Smith’s head. “One of those fellas who planned to bushwhack me tonight?”
Or was it someone else?

“Okay—you got me cold.” Bill Smith turned his head just enough to blink at the Indian’s dark profile. “Let’s make a deal.”

“I’m listening.”

“I know how to safe the detonator on this gadget.”

“After I back off a few paces, go right ahead.”

“I can’t. Not without the right kind of tool.” Smith tried to smile. Couldn’t quite pull it off. “I’ll need some help.”

“Tell me why I’d want to do a thing like that.”

“Help me get me off a this damned thing and I’ll answer your questions. All of ’em!”

“That’s not the way the game is played, Mr. Smith. You tell me what I want to know right up front. If I’m satisfied that you’re not lying through your teeth—I might help you get off the hot seat.”

Smith set his jaw, turned to glare at the fireplace.

“Okay. But I wouldn’t want you to get too comfortable, maybe drift off to sleep and fall off the cushion and onto the floor.” Moon pressed the pistol barrel against the spiny ridge on Smith’s neck. “Slow and easy, now—put your hands behind the chair, about waist-high.” The seated man followed these instructions. “Now clasp your fingers around your forearms.” Stuffing Smith’s .44 Magnum revolver into his pocket, Moon used a pair of nylon tie-wraps to strap the assassin’s wrists together, then to the back of the chair. “Normally, I’d hang around and shoot the breeze with you, but under the circumstances I’ll feel better when I put a little bit of distance between me and what you’re sitting on.”

“Listen, Moon—this is crazy. You leave me here like this, we both lose. You help me, I’ll show you where there’s more cash money than you ever dreamed—”

“If there’s anything you need, don’t expect me to bring it to you. Get
up off your butt and go get it yourself.” With this, the tribal investigator departed.

FIVE DOWN, ONE TO GO

Charlie Moon had barely gotten outside when he saw Number Six high-stepping it across the Too Late Creek bridge.

Annie Rose was almost to the headquarters porch when she felt a man’s big hand on her right shoulder. Suppressing the instinctive scream, the lady bit her tongue. Very painful.

“It’s me.”

“Oh—Mr. Moon?” She ignored the salty taste of blood in her mouth.

“The very same.”
Now ask me what’s been going on
.

“What on earth has been happening here tonight?”

“I expect you refer to the shooting. And the explosion and fire.”

Resisting the urge to make a sarcastic reply, Annie satisfied herself with a simple, “Yes.”

“Some unsavory characters have created considerable mischief here tonight.”

“I’m sorry—I don’t understand. Are you telling me that someone deliberately—”

“Several of ’em are dead, but there might be more where they come from.” Moon’s grip on her shoulder tightened. “Let’s go inside, where we’ll be safer.”

Annie’s back stiffened. “But—”

“Shhhh.” Gently but firmly, the unseen hand moved her to the south side of the headquarters. Up the porch steps. Inside the kitchen door.

AS CHARLIE MOON CLOSED AND LATCHED THE KITCHEN DOOR, HE GOT
a good look at new hire Number Six in the yellowish light from the kerosene lamp. Like himself, Annie was dressed for night work. Gray woolen jacket with deep pockets. Matching knee-length woolen skirt. Her outfit was topped off with a gray felt fedora, underpinned with gray cowgirl boots.

The little gray lady turned to shoot a look at the Ute. “Okay, we’re behind the log walls. So tell me what’s—”

“Looks like the coffee’s ready.” The percolator on the propane range was popping merrily.

“I’ll pour.” She twisted a knob to turn off the flame. “From what Dolly Bushman tells me, you take yours black. With honey.”

“That I do.”
This one don’t miss a trick
.

An accurate appraisal. The lady was a pro.

Annie’s gaze scanned a dozen cabinets mounted on three walls.

Moon pointed his chin. “Cups are over the sink.”

She opened a maple door, selected a china cup for herself and a sturdy crockery mug for the man. “Tell me about the gunshots.” She poured the coffee. “And the explosion.”

“That’d take a lot of telling.”

She found a small pitcher of cream in the refrigerator. “So give me a thumbnail sketch.”

“It started a while back, when I had a run-in with some bad guys.”

“If you refer to those robbers at the hardware store, you needn’t fill me in.” Annie dribbled cream into her cup. “I watch the evening news on the tube.” The cool-as-ice lady stirred honey into his steaming coffee. “Tell me something I
don’t
know.”

That might be a tall order
. “About a day or so ago, somebody planted a couple of IEDs under the blanket Aunt Daisy put on my porch swing.”

Annie presented a puzzled expression that was patently phony. “Planted
what
?”

She’d never make a poker player
. “Improvised explosive devices.”

“You’re
kidding
.”

Moon’s smile reflected a deep weariness with deception. “That’s what Bill Smith said.”

“Well don’t keep me in suspense—tell me all about it.”

“Not till I’ve enjoyed some liquid refreshment.”

Moon took the cup and the mug into the dining room and placed them on the table. The gentleman pulled out a chair for the lady.

“Thank you, sir.” Annie gathered her skirt and seated herself on the cushioned chair. Froze.
Oh my God
.

“I figured you’d know right away what you’d sat down on.” Moon, who had remained behind her, removed a couple of interesting items from her coat pockets. “Well—look at that—a 9-millimeter Glock.” He aimed it at his coffee mug. “Guess those big pistols the bad boys carry are a mite too heavy for a dainty little lady like yourself.” He slipped the automatic into his hip pocket and placed her satellite telephone on the table. “And that’s a nice touch, Annie. After your buddies take out the phone lines and the cell tower, you folks are able to communicate. Who had the other sat phone? One of the back shooters that figured they had me cornered in the machine shop?”

Her tongue still aching, Annie bit her lower lip.

The tribal cop seated himself across the table from his guest and took a sip of the sweetish brew. “When I found a couple of your pie-pan IEDs under that blanket on the swing, I don’t need to tell you that I wasn’t overly pleased. Sometimes—especially when I’m surprised—I tend to be a little slow on the uptake. But it didn’t take me long to understand that those explosives weren’t meant for me. Daisy and Sarah were your intended victims—anybody who’s spent even a few days on the Columbine knows that hardly anyone else ever sits there.” He leaned forward to fix a flinty look on the woman. “Now that was a game changer. I made up my mind right on the spot—not one of you outlaws would leave the Columbine alive.”

Annie Rose was as pale as new-fallen snow at twilight. The terrified woman parted her lips to protest. “If you would just listen—”

“Hush.”

She hushed.

Moon downed what was left of his coffee and pushed the mug aside. “Ever since I found those explosives, all I’ve had on my mind is killing
every last one of you
. And I don’t mind telling you that I’ve been making some fair progress.” He jerked his thumb in the general direction of the machine shop. “Four of your friends are already buzzard bait.” He aimed a finger at the parlor. “And Mr. Smith has his butt planted on the same item that’s under your chair cushion.”

“Mr. Smith?”

“Go ahead. Tell me you never heard of him.”

The woman set her jaw. “May I
please
say something?”

“No.” Moon got up from his chair. “And don’t ask me to bring you any cookies or cake to go with your coffee.” An enigmatic grin curled the Ute’s lips. “Like I told Mr. Smith—if you need something, get up and get it for yourself.”

MR. MOON
was extremely angry, angry men make mistakes, and our subject had made several. Some of them dandies. Consider this for instance.

REGARDING THE BUZZARD BAIT

Stressed as he was, Charlie Moon could still count up to four, and he was correct in believing that was the number of bloodthirsty assassins he had locked inside the Columbine machine-shop shed.

His error?

Assuming that all four were dead.

Three of the brutal criminals had gone on to their reward.

The exception was the leader of the B Team. Approximately 0.42 seconds after he had ignited the gasoline with his nifty propane weed burner, Asok had been blown through the roof. As a physicist who delights in describing ballistic flight might put it, his body had “. . . followed an approximately parabolic trajectory, rising to an apex of almost forty-two
feet, where the relentless tug of gravity overcame the upward component of Asok’s velocity and began pulling him back to earth.” Delightful chaps, these egghead scientists, but they have a tendency to ignore those pesky anomalies. Such as—the thug’s 180-some-odd pounds did not come all the way down—
it never hit the ground
.