The Widow's Revenge (34 page)

“Yes ma’am.”

“And don’t ‘yes ma’am’ me—I hate and despise that!”

“Sorry.” He raised both palms to placate the lady. “I know I’ve messed up. And you’ve got every reason to be mad at me.” Moon inhaled. “But before you get your hands all primed for clapping and order a case of champagne, there is what my defense attorney would call a ‘mitigating circumstance.’ ”

“That your IQ is comparable to room temperature in an Inuit’s igloo?”

“Uh—that might help sway a jury, but it’s not what I had in mind.”

“It is unkind of you to keep me in suspense. After all, I am a captive audience.”

“Well, actually that’s the point—you’re nothing of the sort.”

Her eyebrow arched again. “What do you mean by that opaque remark?”

“Just what I said. You’re not a captive of any kind. Anytime you want to, you can get up from that chair.”

Her brow furrowed. “You don’t mean . . .”

“Yes I do.” Moon cocked his head and this is what he said: “Never, in a billion-million years, would I trick a pretty lady like yourself into sitting down on an explosive device.”

Pretty?
“You . . . you wouldn’t?”

The sweet-talker sensed a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. “Not if you buried me up to my neck in a hill of red killer ants and poured a gallon of honey over my head.” He explained, “Cowboys don’t do bad things like that to sweet young ladies.”

Sweet?
“They don’t?”

Moon shook his head. “Code of the West.”

She stared at the enigmatic westerner for quite some time. Long enough for a man who’d just shaved his chin to grow a noticeable beard.
Or so it seemed to the Ute, who had never had to remove whiskers from his face. “Please tell me—if I am not sitting on one of the Family’s notorious explosive contraptions, precisely what
is
under this cushion?”

He was pleased to tell her. “Nothing the least bit dangerous. Just an aluminum pie pan I found here in the kitchen when I was looking for a snack.”

This revelation was not easy to come to grips with. “For all this time, I’ve been sitting on an ordinary pie pan—there’s no explosive under the seat cushion?”

“That’s right.” Charlie Moon took this opportunity to remind his guest of a significant factoid: “I never actually said there was.”

WHILE SCOTT PARRIS WAS UPSTAIRS IN CHARLIE MOON’S OFFICE, AND
the repentant Ute was doing his level best to charm Special Agent Annie Rose into forgiving his understandable error, the murderous man sitting in front of the parlor fireplace had some time to kill. Not one to waste his thoughts on trivia, Bill Smith had been occupying his gray matter by pondering various and sundry issues that were of considerable and immediate importance. As is so often the case, this intense mental activity neither provided a solution to his problems nor calmed his troubled psyche. Two examples of this fruitless pondering come to mind.

FIRST (FOLLOWING
an urgent high-pressure signal from his bladder):

What’ll I do if I have to take a leak?
His concern was that if he lost control of his sphincter valve, would the release of an electrically conductive fluid onto the explosive booby trap set off the detonator? Unsure of the answer to this timely and pertinent question, Smith made up his mind to refuse any offer of refreshment that included a beverage. He was also determined to continue to sweat away as much of his internal body fluids as possible.

Second (with a brow-furrowing scowl):

I wonder if they have capital punishment in Colorado?
If so, he concluded that his execution was more likely to be by injection of a deadly toxin into his veins than such arcane practices as sentencing a citizen to hang by his neck until he was thoroughly deceased, or by a firing squad (his choice).
But what if they still use an electric chair?
The very thought of being connected to high-voltage electricity made the felon shudder.

THE DEAL GOES DOWN

When Scott Parris left Moon’s office, the normally uncomplicated fellow found himself in one of those thoughtful, brooding moods that a more philosophical type would have described as reflective. Or, if the philosopher wore horn-rimmed spectacles and smoked a curly-stemmed brier pipe—
pensive
. Not even halfway to pensive, the Granite Creek chief of police descended the carpeted stairway into the parlor without making a sound, approached the seated man from behind, and—put his hand on the assassin’s shoulder.

An already tense Smith jerked like he had been electrocuted. He also swore under his breath.

Parris pretended not to notice the electrifying effect of his arrival. “How you doin’, sport?”

“Uh—okay I guess.” Smith stared straight ahead, squinting at the sooty fireplace. “You find me a letter opener?”

“Sure did.”

“Then cut my hands loose and give it to me.”

“Not so fast, Dog Face. While I was upstairs, I had some time to cogitate about your unlikely tale—and I don’t believe Charlie Moon would do a mean thing like sitting a nice fella like you onto an explosive gadget.” Parris patted Smith on the shoulder. “Way I figure it—ol’ Charlie was just joshin’ you.”

“No—he—
wasn’t
.” This earnest assertion was punctuated by a vigorous head shake. “That Indian was dead serious. I move my butt offa this pillow, I am
monkey meat!
”

“What makes you so sure Charlie wasn’t playing a prank on you?”

Smith hesitated. “Well . . .” Also faltered. “Thing is . . .” And dillydal-lied. “The guy was acting crazy. Like he thought I was some kinda outlaw.”

“For all I know, maybe you are. Maybe that’s why Charlie strapped you to this chair. But that don’t convince me you’re sittin’ on some kinda rigged-up bomb. For all I know, all this stuff about dynamite and how you can make it safe with a letter opener is a scam—all you really want is to get cut loose. You figure you’ll stick this blade between my ribs and be outta here faster’n a scalded jackrabbit.”

“Then hold a gun to my head.”

“Well . . . I might just do that.”

“Look—I know this damned thing I’m sittin’ on ain’t no joke, because the Indian told me how the explosive contraption works. And it sounds like the real McCoy to me.”

“Sounds like you know a little something about explosives.”

“Sure I do. Few years back, I did some hard-rock mining up in Nevada.”

“Tell me how Moon rigged this one.”

“Uh . . . why’s that important?”

“Before I cut the plastic restraints and give you a pointy instrument that you might blow yourself up with—and maybe me to boot—I’d like to know exactly how you intend to disarm whatever it is you’re sitting on.”

“Uh—it’s kinda complicated. With electronic stuff and whatnot.”

“Not a problem. In my younger days, I graduated from DeVry Technical Institute in Chicago. You ever hear of it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“It was on Belmont Avenue, just a few blocks east of Cicero. Great school. I learned how to repair TV sets, built an AM radio from scratch, even got myself a first-class FCC license. And for years after that, I was a ham-radio operator. So tell me about the detonator.”

“Well, there’s this battery that—”

“What kinda battery?”

“Nothing special—a standard nine-volt transistor. When somebody sits on this damned thing, the pie pan crunches down on a coiled spring and makes contact with a stainless steel screw head—”

“Did you say
pie pan
?”

“That’s what the Indian told me. Anyway, the pie pan makes an electrical connection that charges a capacitor—”

“Years ago, we called ’em condensers.” Parris knelt by the remnants of the fire and held his hands out to the embers. “What kind of capacitor?”

“Uh, the Indian didn’t say.”

“Probably an electrolytic.”

“Maybe so. The point is, I can get myself outta this situation if you’ll help me.”

“Oh, I don’t know about
that
.” Parris shrugged. “If Charlie Moon wants you dead, he must have his reasons.”

“Listen to what I’m telling you—that Indian is
crazy
!”

“Sane or nutty, ol’ Charlie’s still my buddy.”

Smith ground his teeth. “If I get blown to pieces, your buddy’ll get charged with murder.”

Parris seemed to mull this over. “Well, you’ve got a good point there. I’d hate to see ol’ Charlie do hard time in the slammer.” The chief of police got to his feet with a grunt. “Tell me how you’ll do the trick with this letter opener.”

“The way the Indian explained it to me, the pie pan is insulated from a stainless steel plate.” Smith jabbed his finger at the pillow. “If I stick the blade through the explosive assembly, I ought to be able to short the pan to the plate; that’d drain the charge off the capacitor.”

“Okay. But don’t make your move till I get out of the house.”

“I promise.”

The cop cut the felon loose.

“Thanks.” Smith rubbed his wrists. “You won’t regret this.”

“You will, if you try to pull a fast one—I’ll shoot you deader’n hell.” Parris was not kidding. He laid the letter opener on Smith’s shoulder. “Count to twenty before you start punching holes in things. By that time, I’ll be on the porch.”

“You got it.” Smith took the lethal-looking instrument in a trembling hand. He listened to Parris’s boot heels click away toward the front door. He heard the squeak of the hinges as the door opened. The click of the latch as it closed.

What did the felon
not
hear?

The chief of police removing his Roper boots and returning stealthily to stand behind Smith’s chair. But not too close. And not too far away.

PULLED THIS WAY AND THAT BY CONFLICTING OBLIGATIONS AND CON
cerns, Charlie Moon had compromised by taking up a position in the dining-room end of the dark hallway that connected to the headquarters parlor, where a dangerous felon was (he believed) securely fastened to an armchair. That Scott Parris would have cut the man loose had not so much as entered the tribal investigator’s mind.

Moon’s strategic location served a twofold purpose.

First and foremost, it enabled the Ute to cock his left ear for any suspicious sounds from the parlor. Should Bill Smith get some fool notion and create even the smallest commotion, Mr. Moon would be all over him like Sidewinder on a coyote. The Ute’s sensitive ear strained for the least whisper of sinister activity.
It’s awfully quiet
. In the absence of any audible evidence, his fertile imagination conjured up ominous scenarios.
Maybe Smith’s smarter than he looks
. Also worries.
I hope Scott’s keeping a close eye on that sneaky cannibal rascal
. But of course he would be. The chief of police was one of those rare men you could count on to get the job done.

Purpose number two? While Charlie Moon busily listened, imagined, and worried about what Mr. Smith might be up to, the multitasking fellow was also
watching
. His entire visual attention was focused on the tense little woman seated at the Columbine dining table. Since her semi-hypothetical question (“I’ve been sitting on an ordinary pie pan—there’s no explosive under the seat cushion?”), the FBI agent had not uttered a word. Which was not necessarily a good omen. On the contrary, her silence gave Moon another thing to worry about.
The lady’s thinking things over
.

Charlie Moon figured this was one of those either/or situations and
resorted to an internal assertion that was both inarguably true and entirely lacking in content:
Either she’ll file charges or she won’t
. Unable to read Annie Rose’s expression, he estimated the odds to be about fiftyfifty, which is what poker players do when they don’t have a clue. Having no other apparent options, he waited for the outcome. It wasn’t easy: passivity was not Moon’s long suit.

HER CONUNDRUM

Though enormously relieved to learn that she was in no danger of being mangled by a charge of high explosive, Special Agent Rose was not quite ready to celebrate. Indeed, the lady now found herself entangled in a complex situation that presented a frustrating mixture of opportunity and risk.
I could still think of a few things to charge Moon with
. Then, there was the downside.
But if I reveal how he duped me into sitting on a harmless pie pan for almost an hour, the anecdote would become the talk of the Bureau
. Her face burned.
My career would be toast
. It was all so terribly unfair.
I was sent here to protect this skinny Indian and his friends, and this is what I get
.

Annie hung her head, closed her eyes, and sighed. She would have cried, but FBI agents also have their Code. Weary of sitting, she made an effort to get up. Could not. She cleared her throat. “It seems . . .”
This is so humiliating
. “It seems that my legs have gone to sleep.”

Moon helped the lady to her feet.