The Widow's Revenge (10 page)

SENTRY NUMBER ONE

The young man behind the wheel of the Ford van had an inexpensive walkie-talkie in his left hand, a stainless steel, snub-nosed, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver in his right. He laid the heavy weapon on the seat beside him, thumbed the Talk button on the radio-frequency-communications device. “Skeezix?”

“I’m here, Dag.”

“That Expedition I told you about that came and went—it hasn’t circled back or anything.”

“Glad to hear it.” The raspy voice in his ear added, “But don’t get careless. Keep your eyes on the street.”

Which was just what the subservient sentry did.

Indeed, Dag—who had his gaze fixed on the parking lot and street out front—paid no attention whatever to either of the van’s door-mounted rearview mirrors. Not that it would have helped if he had. The tribal investigator (so those who know him say) had a way of slipping up on you that made him invisible in bright daylight. Surely an exaggeration. But this was a murky morning, and, despite his considerable height, Charlie Moon did have a talent for quasi-invisibility. The Ute was helped along when the heavens opened to spray a hard, slanting rain that turned murky morning into semi-night and suddenly concealed Moon’s dark form.

Add all these factors up and you have the reason why, barely six minutes later, Dag was unaware of the shadowy figure cloaked in a black raincoat who was at work behind the van.

Why did the driver not hear the soft, hissing sounds?

The van windows were rolled up to keep out the chill. Also because the engine was running. Ditto, the defroster fan.

Why was he unaware of the gradual shifting in the vehicle’s stance?

Hard to say.

But Dag’s faculties were not entirely faulty. Indeed, he absolutely lurched at the sound of a big knuckle rapping on his window, went slack-jawed at the sight of the grinning face on the wet side of the glass, felt his heart race as the voice said, “I believe these belong to you.”

The driver dropped the walkie-talkie into his shirt pocket, put his hand on the pistol resting by his right thigh, and lowered the window by half an inch. “What’s that?”

The stranger with rainwater dripping from his hat brim displayed the delicate items between finger and thumb. “A couple of spring-loaded valves.” Moon jerked his head to indicate the back side of the van. “They should be in your rear tires. Inside the valve stems.”

Our scholar (a fine-arts major) had a hard time assimilating complex technical information. “What?”

Moon explained: “When the valve stems aren’t in place, the air comes out.”

At the moment, Dag was also a man of few words. Two of them were “Uh . . .” and “Uh . . .”

The very soul of Patience, the Ute mechanic explained: “Somebody unscrewed these valve stems. That let all the air out. Both of your rear tires are flat as pancakes.”

Dag found a few more words: “Hellfire and damnation!” As an unconscious gesture, he raised the wicked-looking pistol just high enough for the tribal investigator to see it. “Who’d do a mean thing like that?”

A reasonable question. The answer was instantaneous.

Moon jerked the van door open and unhinged the young man’s jaw with a hard right hook that just about took Dag’s head off.

THE STORM
that had pulled a curtain over the hardware store parking lot was only mildly frustrating to the observer across the street, who
had no way of knowing that Dagwood had been assaulted by a local citizen.

The second person present in the Caffeine High Coffee Shop was a sleepy-eyed Salvadoran whose name tag identified him as an assistant manager; the versatile fellow also served as cook, dishwasher, janitor, and waiter. In that latter capacity, he sidled up to the only occupied table. “You be wantin’ anythin’ else?”

“A double espresso.” The customer amended the order: “No, make that a triple. With sugar and spice.”

The assistant manager grinned. “And everythin’ nice?”

“What?”

“You say ‘sugar an’ spice,’ so I say ‘and everythin’ nice.’ ”

“Oh.”
Did I really say that?
“Sorry. A slip of the tongue.” Trout smiled. “I meant to say ‘sugar and nutmeg.’ ”

THE REAR-GUARD LOOKOUT WAS POSTED AT ABC HARDWARE’S ALLEY
entrance, just inside a narrow steel door on the loading dock. The quasi-intellectual member of the team had developed a tendency to while away his time pondering life’s many pernicious perplexities and vertiginous vicissitudes, but only after he had looked up all three words in an unabridged dictionary. At this moment, Dilbert was pursuing his hobby whilst leaning against a small forklift. The malcontent was musing about how unfair the setup was.
While Skeezix and Snuffy are up front having fun with the dopey old woman, what am I doing?
Rubbing the snub-nosed barrel of a stainless steel, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver thoughtfully against his chin, the young man responded to this question:
I’m standing here in the dark, contemplating my navel.
A long, self-pitying sigh.
I am so totally bored.
He tapped the pistol against his fleshy nose.
I wish something would happen. Anything.
After making this foolhardy wish, he employed his wonderfully fertile imagination in an attempt to envision himself in some faraway, exotic place. A medieval dungeon crawling with rabid rats and ravenous body lice. A dark, stinking chamber where an insane sorcerer brewed up—

Dilbert cocked his ear.
What was that?

A rapping on the door? Yes, but very subtle. More like a tapping.

He leaned forward, strained to hear.

Who was that rapping-tapping on his chamber door?

No kind of bird that he would care to meet.

The sentry got a firm grip on his sidearm.

Another rap-rap.

It might be Dag, come around back to tell me something. But if it is, why don’t he just use the walkie-talkie?
Maybe the instrument had crapped
out.
Or maybe Skeezix signaled for radio silence.
The sentry whispered, “Who’s there?”

No response.

Guess I’d better go outside and have a look.

Guess again.

Every nerve fiber in his unwashed body, every pulsing neuron and synaptic junction in his addled brain—all screamed in unison,
Don’t open the door!

Did he pay the least attention to this sensible multitude of nerve fibers, pulsing neurons, and synaptic junctions? Of course not. Curiosity trumped them all.

Dilbert’s left hand reached out. His pale, clammy fingers grasped the brass knob and turned it. He pushed the loading-dock door open just enough to stick his head out into the inclement weather.

Aside from rain and sleet on his face, what did Mr. D. get for his trouble?

Sudden, total darkness.

Nothing more.

MRS. JEPPSON

The widow was in her office, tied to a chair. Terrified by what was happening, she could not remember what day of the week it was, much less the combination to the antique Mosler safe. Several stinging slaps across the face had not helped her memory.

A big, burly, black-bearded bear of a man stood over the helpless victim. Laying his stainless steel, snub-nosed, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver on the proprietor’s desk, Skeezix pulled a razor-sharp Buck hunting knife from a sheath at the small of his back. What sort of man was this? Let it merely be said that he
enjoyed
pressing the cold blade against Mrs. Jeppson’s trembling upper lip. “Now listen close, you old bag a bones. Here’s the deal—either you cough up the combination or I slice off your nose.”

“Go ahead, Skeez—cut her damn nose off and make her
eat
it!” (This encouragement came from Snuffy, a pale, slender sadist with a blond buzz cut, who had his stainless steel, snub-nosed, ivory-gripped .44 Magnum revolver stuffed under his belt.)

The befuddled old woman whimpered. “Please . . . I just can’t remem—”

“Ah—excuse me.”

The startled thugs turned to see a tall, dark, thin man in a black raincoat standing in the office doorway.

OH, THANK
you, God!
Mrs. Jeppson used this heaven-sent distraction to stretch her leg. Yes, just one leg. No, the leg did not need stretching. The point was to get her toe onto an alarm button under her desk and press it. Her late husband had informed her about the security system’s several helpful features, but all the widow recalled was that if she pushed on the big button, the police would come. She did not remember Mr. Jeppson’s remarks about the security camera, which was concealed in a wall clock whose face was the very picture of innocence. Sad to say, the alarm button was a long way away, and her leg was inconveniently short.

SKEEZIX WAS
the first to find his voice. “Who’n hell are
you
?”

“The name’s Moon.” As if apologetic for barging in on a private party, the uninvited guest was holding his gray, Sunday-go-meeting John B. Stetson hat in both hands. The right side of Moon’s raincoat had been pushed back to expose the long-barreled .357 Magnum holstered on a belt studded with ammunition. The Southern Ute tribal investigator’s gold shield glistened on his shirt pocket. “It is my intention to arrest you. But before I do, it is my duty to advise you that anything you say may be used as evidence against you.”

The eldely lady stretched her leg ever so hard.
Oh, dear—I hope my hip joint don’t pop loose.

Skeezix’s brow furrowed into a perplexed frown. “Did Trout send you to see what we’d do?” He cocked his fuzzy head. “You part a the game—like extra points?”

Mrs. Jeppson got her toe on the button. Pressed it.

“I’m here on behalf of Loyola Montoya.” Moon saw Skeezix’s eyes go flat at the mention the dead woman’s name. “But if you tough guys figure this is a game, either fold your hands—or make your play.”

The tough guys thought it over. Pushing old women around was one thing. This fellow—who was either stone crazy or deadly dangerous—was quite another. Fear gnawed at their innards. But (and their adversary was counting on this) even the lowest sort of vermin will fight when cornered. The fingers on their gun hands flexed, edged ever so slowly toward their stainless steel .44 Magnum revolvers until . . . their fingertips touched the ivory grips.

The shake of the tribal investigator’s head was barely perceptible. Moon’s tone was soft as a summer rain falling on moss. “That’d be a serious mistake.”

Both hands froze.

Skeezix’s lip curled into an ugly sneer. “There’s
no way
you can draw that big horse pistol before we blow you away.”

Sidekick Snuffy echoed his agreement: “No way!”

“Boys, I won’t argue the point.” Still grasping the brim of his gray Stetson with both thumbs, Moon made no move for his sidearm. Smiling like a kindly uncle, he addressed his blustering adversaries oh so softly—barely above a whisper: “But you’d be well advised to place both hands behind your necks, fingers interlocked.”

Skeezix snickered.

Snuffy snorted.