Three Sisters (34 page)

The Ute heard the big engine rumble. Watched the truck surge forward. Hoped against hope.
Maybe I counted wrong.
He tightened his finger on the trigger. Waited until the man’s face had filled his narrowed field of vision—pulled the trigger.

Click.

Well, this is it.

It was.

The first hollow-point passed through Moxon’s throat, lodged flatly in his spine.

The second entered the driver’s left eye socket, liquefied half his brain.

The third missed.

Not to worry. This was one of those occasions where two out of three was good enough.

Nicholas Moxon’s corpse slumped forward onto the steering wheel.

Hurricane Hazel veered sharply to the left, caromed off the heap of boulders, rolled down the steep bank, crashed thunderously into the rushing waters, where Moxon’s blood mixed with Elmer Jackson’s.

Charlie Moon looked down at his friend.

Parris had raised himself on his good elbow. The .38 Smith & Wesson was in his left hand, his blood-soaked face split in a hideously brutal, marvelously happy grin. “I
got
the bastard!”

“There was no need, I already had him in my sights.” Moon stuck the impotent pistol under his belt. “But it’s just like you—grabbing all the credit for yourself.” The Ute’s expression hinted of mild disapproval. “Besides, you was supposed to be cashing in your chips.”
Thank you, God. I owe you a big one
.

Reminded of this grim fact, Parris relaxed, rolled over on to his back. “I was about to cross that River, all right. But I figured if I leave ol’ Charlie Moon to take care of business, he’s bound to mess things up.”

Again, the Ute knelt by his friend. “I was about to take him out.”

“Ha!” The small revolver slipped from Parris’s grip. “I may be bunged up some—but I can count to six.”

Moon let that pass. And now that things had settled down some, he remembered that there was a second passenger.

Nineteen fifty-seven Cadillacs did not come equipped with seat belts. Cassandra Spencer, who had been thrown clear, was several paces from the wreckage, wedged between a black basalt boulder and a sturdy piñon. The psychic’s eyes were wide open, staring at the unseen. The tribal investigator put a thumb under her jawbone, felt a weak, intermittent pulse. Cassandra was breathing, but when she exhaled, frothy blood bubbled between her lips.

Moon frowned, shook his head.
She won’t last long
.

From somewhere to the north, the hopeful wail of the siren’s song. Help was coming. Granite Creek police trained in first aid. Close behind, EMTs with oxygen, bandages, defibrillators, miraculous medications—all the assistance modern technology can provide to pull the dying back from death.

Then, something else. Something altogether
other.
No, do not ask. The how and why are hidden from us mortals. Some will assume that Charlie Moon’s perception was colored by symbols of his Catholic upbringing. Again, we do not know. What can be said with certainty is that the Ute felt a definite
presence.
Something infinitely more real than himself. Small, at first. Unobtrusive. But it grew quickly. Soon, all about him, a low rumbling, as if the whole creation trembled. A sudden rush of chill wind took his breath away. Though his body was rigid, his senses were extraordinarily acute. For the duration, he was a witness—and an advocate.

Silently, the tribal investigator prays.

Charlie Moon watches her go—

The witness watches the hammer fall—hears the thunder roll!

Charlie Moon burst through the street-level entrance to the Granite Creek Police Department, gave Senior Dispatcher Clara Tavishuts (a fellow Ute) a salute, bounded up the stairs three steps at a time to the second floor. Grinning from one ear to the other (and back) he strode through the door marked
CHIEF OF POLICE
, boomed a big laugh at the grumpy-faced fellow seated behind the desk.

Scott Parris’s scowl edged up one notch on the Cantankerous Scale, making deep furrows in his brow.

Moon was in a backslapping mood, but restrained himself.

Granite Creek’s top cop was not feeling tip-top—only a few hours out of the hospital, he was hurting from a broken left ulna, five fractured ribs, and the corrosive knowledge that he had not been able to protect Cassandra Spencer from the onslaught of her murderous partner. The almost-healed scar that traced an ugly arc from the corner of his left eye down to the hinge of his prominent jaw turned from shocking pink to angry crimson. Unaware of the communicative effect of these colorful visual displays, he grunted and mumbled, “What’s so damn funny?”

Counting off fingers, Moon went down the list: “Peanuts comic strips. Dave Barry. And the Department of Agriculture’s latest bulletin on how to raise a hundred head of llamas on ten acres of dry-land prairie.” He pointed at Parris. “But if you figure I’m laughing on account of a sudden attack of mirth, you are way off the mark.”

“I am?”

“Yes you am—I laugh because I’m
happy.
”

Parris barely suppressed a snort. “What about?”

“Lots of things.”

The injured man grimaced at a sudden pain. “Gimme a f’r instance.”

“Well, take today, f’r instance.” The rancher spread his arms to encompass the numerous blessings. “A quarter inch of rain on the south thirty sections. How the sun came up over the Buckhorn Range. A fine breakfast of sugar-cured Virginia ham, scrambled eggs, sweet black coffee. The way the air smells like lightning’s about to strike—and so crisp you could slice off a piece with your pocket knife.” Moon assumed a properly earnest expression. “But most of all, I’m happy to see my buddy forked-end down. And I’m glad I don’t have to visit you every day of the week, bringing you chocolate candy imported all the way from Germany and fresh-cut flowers to sniff and fuzzy toys to play with and brand-new magazines to read and other expensive stuff such as even a prosperous rancher like myself can barely afford.”

The patient had appreciated the reading material and the hollowed-out giraffe that (what would they think of next!) could be worn as a hat. Which, late one evening, long after lights-out, when the hallway did not pitter-pat with the sound of nurses’ rubber-soled shoes, he did. Wear the giraffe as a hat, that is. “You never brought me no candy or flowers.”

“Sure I did, pard. But I gave ’em to that pretty little redheaded nurse who took to calling me sweetie and darling and liked to take me by the hand and lead me down the hall to your room like I couldn’t remember where it was at.”

The older man had also admired that shapely young lady. “Little Red never called
me
sweetie.”
Why do the women go for Charlie?
Parris’s voice took on a petulant tone: “And don’t say you showed up to see me every day, ’cause you sure as hell didn’t do no such thing.”

“Yes I did.”

“Then why was it I didn’t happen to notice you being in my room?” He smirked at the seven-foot-tall Ute. “It’s not like you’d be easy to miss.”

“I’ll tell you why—because sometimes when I dropped in you was sound asleep. Snoring like all get-out. And I didn’t want to wake you up.”

Parris coughed up a “Hmmph,” which was his way of saying that he did not believe a word of this Indian blarney. But he was happy to see his best friend. He nodded to indicate a padded armchair. Watched Mr. Moon seat himself. Lean back. The very picture of contentment. Parris eyed the Very P. of C. “While I was in the hospital—did you go to Cassie’s funeral?”

The tribal investigator nodded.

“I imagine there was a sizable crowd.”

Moon quoted the newspaper account, which he was certain his friend had read. “Seven hundred plus.”

“That’s a good turnout. Must’ve pleased Bea.” What he wanted to say was,
Charlie, I can’t hardly sleep a wink at night without having bad dreams about Cassie’s death. I was driving her car—and she was under my protection. Which makes me responsible.
But because a bona fide hairy-chested man does not seek solace, our hero was deprived of the comfort he sorely needed.

Parris had arranged his desk for a view through the window that framed a red maple. A plucky black-crested Steller’s jay landed on a spindly branch, cocked its head at him, shrieked a
shack-shack-shack
remark that the cop, who was not a dues-paying member of the Audubon Society, interpreted as a fowl obscenity.
Shack-shack right back at you, birdbrain!
Keeping his glare fixed on the jay, Parris muttered, “State police got a warrant to examine Cassie’s computer equipment, but all the memory was wiped clean. Ditto for Moxon’s laptop. He must’ve taken care of that critical piece of business before he stole the big truck and bashed the owner’s head in.” He was attempting to stare the jay down. “Not that it matters all that much, what with her verbal confession.”
And with both of ’em dead.

“It’s finished,” Moon said.

Not quite. Parris blinked. The jay made a derisive
eck-eck
chirp that sounded like a bird chuckle. Having been bested by a creature with a brain the size of a piñon nut, the chief of police nodded to indicate the miniature kitchen and pantry at the far end of his office, where a six-quart coffeepot bubbled hot around the clock. “You need a shot of caffeine?”

“Nope, but I’ve never been known to turn down a free cup of coffee and I don’t intend to change my ways this late in life.” The perpetually hungry man eyed a grease-spotted cardboard box. “Is that what my nose says it is?”

“Yeah. Those doughnuts are stale as granddaddy’s jokes, but stuff your face with as many as you want.”

Heading to the source of food and drink, Moon asked whether he could bring his host some refreshment.

Parris was
this close
to asking for a cup of real coffee. Even a sugar-soaked doughnut. He yielded to his conscience, whose voice was identical to his long-dead mother’s. “I’ll have a cup of decaf—the little pot’s full of the stuff.”
Nobody drinks that crap but me.
“Put some artificial sweetener in it, and a dash of that powdered, no-calorie, nondairy creamlike substance that tastes almost as good as chalk.”

The Indian delivered the chief’s beverage first, returned to the canteen. Searched the refrigerator for what he was looking for. Found it.

That java don’t smell half bad
. Parris took a sip, arched a surprised eyebrow, spoke to Moon’s back. “That sure hits the well-known spot.”

The cowpuncher punched buttons on the micro wave oven.

“If you don’t mind, Charlie, bring me one of them rice cakes.”
It’s like eating cardboard, but a man needs something to chew on
.

Moon returned to place a plastic picnic plate on his friend’s desk. Upon it was a brown recycled-paper napkin. Also a glazed doughnut. Melted butter dripped off the pastry.

Parris’s suspicious gaze darted from the doughnut to his coffee cup. Back to the doughnut, tarrying for a long, lustful look. “What’s in my cup?”

“Half a tank of high-test java. Other half is half-and-half. And it’s sweetened with the real thing.”

A halfhearted protest: “I’m on a strict diet.”

Dr. Moon offered his prescription: “What you need right now is a stiff dose of caffeine. And a big helping of highly refined white cane sugar.”

Parris took another sip of the coffee.
That is sooo good
. Tasted the doughnut. Closed his eyes.
I’ve died and gone to heaven
. Which reminded him: “This stuff is liable to kill me.”

“Not a problem. Bein’ your best buddy, I’m bound to be asked to say a few sorrowful words at your funeral.” Moon raised his cup to salute the prospective corpse. “I’ll tell the two or three folks that show up what a disgusting glutton you was in your former life, and how your untimely passing is a warning to chowhounds who—like yourself—have to keep punching extra holes in their belts.”

“Thanks a whole bushel.”

“I try to do a good deed every day of the week.” Moon returned to his chair with a steaming mug of police-station brew and the box of sugar-encrusted pastries. “Anything new on Andrew Turner’s car wreck?”

The weight-watcher watched the tribal investigator get to work on the remaining doughnuts. “Day before yesterday, a state police copter did a few passes over the Devil’s Mouth. It was dragging a cable with some high-tech sensors. Magnetic field detectors. Infrared sensors. Ice-penetrating radar. From what I hear, they picked up a dozen ‘anomalies’—which is eleven too many.” Parris took a long drink of sweet coffee. “It’d cost a truckload of taxpayers’ money to dig ’em all out. So until there’s a big thaw, whatever’s left of Turner and his fancy car will have to stay right where they are.” The chief of police felt his gaze pulled to the window. The bird on the maple branch still had a pair of beady eyes fixed on him. He aimed a scowl at the haughty descendant of dinosaurs.
Go eat a poison bug.
Getting in the last words (
“chook-chook-chook!”
), the impudent
Cyanocitta stelleri
took wing. To celebrate his small victory, Parris took the last bite of buttery pastry, downed the final sip of sugary coffee.
Boy howdy—that was good!
But by his measure, a pleasure must be balanced by a commensurate worry:
I’ll gain five pounds and stay awake all night.

Time passed. Which is another way of saying: One-second segments of the fourth dimension of the space-time continuum were ticktocked away by the electrical innards of a Go Broncos! wall clock.

Parris glanced at the branch where the jay had been. Remorse set in.
I was just kidding about the poison bug.
He addressed the human being in his office: “I’d give a month’s pay to turn up Turner’s corpse, stuff his bones into a pine box, and nail a lid on this nasty business once and for all.”
Which reminds me.
He blinked at the Indian. “Charlie, d’you remember that peculiar old drunk—the guy who claimed he’d seen something or other on the Spencer driveway when Turner had his accident?”

“Clevis Parsley, aka Elvis Presley.” The Ute, who was working on the next-to-last of the stale doughnuts, delayed taking a bite so he could say, “That ol’ rock-and-roller told us he’d seen a couple of witches.”

Parris scratched at the fiberglass cast on his arm.
Charlie has a good memory.
Tempted to have another mug of genuine coffee spiked with half-and-half and genuine sugar, he sighed, pushed the mug aside. “From time to time, I wake up in the middle of the night and wonder.” He started to say something, lapsed into an uneasy silence.

“What do you wonder, pard?”

“I wonder did Turner run off the driveway because it was slick with snow and he was going too fast around that curve—or was there something he tried to keep from running into.” He also wondered where the jay had gone.
Maybe to heckle the mayor
. “What do you think?”

“I try not to do too much thinking. But if I was to cogitate about it for a minute, I might begin to wonder whether Mr. Moxon was responsible for Mr. Turner’s accident.”

Parris nodded. “Another spectacular vision for the up-and-coming TV psychic, another big boost in program ratings.” He turned to gaze at Moon. “But when Cassie made her final confession, she didn’t say a thing about Turner’s car wreck.” He rapped his arm cast on the desk. “Anyway, why would Moxon want to knock off Cassie’s brother-in law?”

Scott still believes he saw a big hairy Sasquatch on the Spencer driveway that snowy night. Carrying something on its shoulder.
What was it?
Oh, right—a king-size burrito. Maybe it was a south-of-the-border Sasquatch, come up from Mexico.
Moon closed one eye, peered through a doughnut hole at his friend. “What you need is a good night’s sleep.”

“You’re right about that.” The chief of police stared through the rectangular glass portal into the outer world. The red maple looked downright lonely. He wished the impudent bird would return. Wished his wife hadn’t died fifteen years, three months, and six days ago. Wished he could slip backward in time, do a rerun of the confrontation with Nicholas Moxon, get it right this time.
I’d pull off the highway soon as I saw him coming, get Cassie out of the car and down the riverbank, shoot the bastard dead.
…He heard the Ute’s deep voice.

“Pardner, it’s not your fault she died. You did all anyone could have. More.”

Parris shook his head. “I don’t know, Charlie—”

“Yes you do—you know because
I’m telling you.
” Moon got up, put both hands on his friend’s desk, leaned like a cougar about to pounce. An incandescent intensity burned in his dark eyes. “Busted-up and bloody as you was—and with nothin’ but that little .38 peashooter—you plugged Mr. Moxon right good. And if you hadn’t, he’d have run down a careless deputy whose six-gun was empty as a bucket with no bottom in it.”

Scott Parris tried to speak. Could not. He blinked away something that was stinging his eye. A mote of dust, no doubt.