The Widow's Revenge (12 page)

At about this time, Sarah showed up in the kitchen.

Oblivious to how his life was about to be turned upside down, Moon advised his teenage helper that it was time to summon the diners. It mattered not that all except one were present to hear this news. Ask anyone who knows and they will tell you that traditions are essential to the civilized life. Just as Sarah Frank was about to apply the thin steel rod to the hundred-plus-year-old Columbine triangular dinner gong, Daisy Perika, who was in the parlor, seated within a yard of the television, let out a shout loud enough to be heard all over the house: “Hey, everybody—come get a look at this!”

Sarah (rod and triangle still in hand) showed up first to gape at the TV screen, where a handsome talking head in a Los Angeles studio was informing his millions of viewers that a certain Colorado rancher who also served as a tribal investigator for the Southern Utes had foiled an armed robbery this morning in a small-town hardware store, severely injuring two of the suspects and killing two others outright in an Old West–style gunfight.

Scott Parris appeared in the dining-room doorway to cock his balding head at the anchorman. The story was bound to be on the news tonight, but
Charlie won’t like it.
Little did Parris realize how much Moon would not like it—or that the story would be
fleshed out
with an illegally procured video of the event. Moon’s best friend turned his impishly grinning face toward the kitchen. “Hey, Chucky—some yahoo on the TV is talking about you.”

Their host, who had been busy removing a savory, twelve-pound beef roast from the oven, came to see what the matter was. The timing could not have been more fortuitous. Or, from Moon’s perspective, more
inopportunitous,
because just as he entered the parlor, the network news anchor was about to give the Ute’s chain a severe rattling. The face smiled at the tribal investigator as if Moon were the sole member of his audience, and made this enticing announcement: “Be forewarned, the video clip we’re about to run—which was captured on the hardware store’s security camera—contains some extremely violent scenes.”

Parris muttered a mouth-filling oath under his breath.

Moon steeled himself.

The TV chameleon instantly exchanged his Mr. Smiley Face mask for
a Solemn as a Mortician expression. “We particularly advise parents with small children to take this explicit violence into consideration.”

Tens of thousands of small children leaned closer to their TV sets. Twice as many innocent eyes goggled in anticipation, tender little shell-like ears cupped ever so slightly forward.

As the snip of black-and-white closed-circuit TV filled the television screen, the scene looked for all the world like fiction. The camera had caught the bad guys more or less from the back, but the tall, slim fellow with the cowboy hat in his hands was—in a phrase—center stage.

The flesh-and-blood Charlie Moon froze.
Oh, no.

THE REPLAY

The digitized Ute might have been Cool Hand Luke.

“I’m here on behalf of Loyola Montoya. But if you tough guys figure this is a game, either fold your hands—or make your play.”

Viewers from Key West to Vancouver watched the bad guys’ hands move ever so slowly toward their pistols.

Thousands of hearts skipped a beat when the tribal investigator shook his head. “That’d be a serious mistake.”

The dead men’s hands froze.

Because of the camera angle, not a living soul could see Skeezix’s lip curl into a sneer. “There’s
no way
you can draw that big horse pistol before we blow you away.”

Even the dullest ear could hear Snuffy echo his agreement: “No way!”

“Boys, I won’t argue the point.” Charlie Moon’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “But you’d be well advised to place both hands behind your necks, fingers interlocked.”

Rapt viewers from San Diego to Kennebunkport heard Skeezix snicker, and Snuffy snort.

Snicker and Snort went for their pistols, the .44 Magnums concealed under Moon’s John B. Stetson hat spoke as if with one voice:
bam-bam!

Count two holes through drilled Charlie Moon’s black cowboy hat.

But that was
not
that.

There was more.

A gaping crater appeared in the back of Skeezix’s skull. A gusher of sooty-black blood sprayed out.

Snuffy’s fuzzy head exploded as if the oaf had swallowed a live grenade. Bits of enamel-white bone shrapnel went zinging this way and that, bits of brain splattered hither and yon—including a tiny globule of cerebellum that splatted fatly on the security-camera lens and (under the force of gravity) began slowly crawling down the polished optics. Yes,
crawling.

For about six heartbeats, the Columbine headquarters was dead silent. Then—

“My
God
in heaven!” No, that was Scott Parris, the hardened cop who believed he’d seen every grisly thing that could happen to a human being.

Sarah was shocked dumb and numb.

Even Daisy Perika did not utter a word.

A mortified Charlie Moon closed his eyes, shook his head.

How did the rest of the huge television audience react? The Nielsen Reports will not be in for hours. In the meantime, let us consider a nonrandom Sample of One. While this will not be representative in a mathematical sense, it may prove more interesting than mountainous compilations of statistics.

OUR SELECT AUDIENCE

At the very instant that Moon closed his eyes and shook his head, another dismayed viewer switched off the TV set, threw the remote control at the blackened screen, and uttered that serviceable expletive that so often succinctly sums up a situation: “Damn!”

This hardware-store foul-up was nothing short of a disaster. The Family would be extremely upset, with the young Turks calling for instant, bloody revenge and the older and cooler heads advising a pulling back—a licking of wounds—and taking time to think things over. The resulting tension could split the clan asunder.
So what do I do to make things right?
A measured, pragmatic response was called for—a course of action that would please both factions. Blood must be spilled, and additional members of the Family put in harm’s way. This being the case, the potential
payoff must justify the risks taken. Which demanded a carefully worked-out plan.

A thoughtful drumming of fingers on the coffee table.

A series of long, wistful sighs.

Fond recollections of days gone by when carefully conceived burglaries, bold robberies, audacious car thefts, and cold-blooded assassinations at twenty-five thousand dollars a pop had gone off slick as boiled okra. These activities had kept the Family prosperous, even during hard times. Then, there were those more or less incidental murders along the way that provided essential training and inexpensive entertainment.

During all this finger drumming, wistful sighing, and bittersweet nostalgia, a variety of possible reactions to the Hardware Store Catastrophe presented themselves. After eliminating the least-attractive options, those few that remained were intriguing. So much so that it seemed a shame to discard even one. Indeed, combining these ingenious elements into a single, grand-slam strategy produced a highly appealing plan.

And so it was that Trout made the fateful decision.

WE RETURN TO THE COLUMBINE

Only moments after the distressed Head of the Family tossed the remote control at the perfectly innocent made-in-China television set, Charlie Moon’s telephone began to ring. The first caller was the perky little lady who owned and managed Harriet’s Rare Books in Granite Creek.

“Hi, Charlie—it’s me.”

He recognized the voice of one of his favorite local characters. “Hi yourself, Harriet. What’s up?”
Like I don’t know.

“I was just watching the boob tube and caught the latest news.”

“I hope you don’t believe everything you see on the TV.”

“Don’t be so doggoned modest, Charlie. I’m glad you shot those two no-goods—the only complaint I got is that you didn’t kill the other two!”

“Well—”

“Oh, don’t go explaining how you was only doin’ your duty and all that ‘I’m just a simple-cowboy’ malarkey. You’re my favorite fella, you big ga-loot! There, I’ve said what I had to say. G’night, Straight-shooter.”

“Good night, Harriet.” Moon was talking to a dead line.

Over the next several days, the tribal investigator would receive dozens of calls. Most were congratulations from gun-toting locals who wished they’d had a piece of the action. Moon also listened patiently to stern lectures from well-meaning citizens who were convinced that the tribal investigator was a gun-happy fanatic who had deliberately violated the sacred civil rights of the
alleged hardware-store robbers.
Unique among the calls was a 3
A.M
. death threat from a San Francisco vegetarian who had no interest in the shootings; she hated anyone who produced meat for human consumption. The most persistent were journalists who wanted an exclusive story on the shoot-out. Moon’s solution was to give the telephone to Aunt Daisy, who would demand a million dollars up front for “my version of what really happened.” Finally, there were four proposals of marriage—the most charming of these from an adoring eight-year-old in Torrington, Wyoming, who thought Mr. Moon was “way cool!” He suggested that the ardent young lady call him back in about thirty years.

Such experiences can make a man wonder whether having a modern telecommunications device installed in his home is such a great notion. Oftentimes, in the evenings, Charlie Moon would disconnect the descendant of Mr. Bell’s remarkable invention.

The Lawman’s Funeral

AS THE GUEST OF HONOR, RECENTLY DECEASED U.S. MARSHAL SCOTT PAR
ris was prepared to enjoy his send-off. Poor fellow. Less than a dozen mourners showed up—and not one of them bothered to grieve, lament, or bewail his passing in any way whatsoever. The Methodist preacher did say a few comforting words over the cold-as-a-carp corpse, which was laid out on an unpainted pine door supported by a pair of straight-back chairs courtesy of the Tennessee Saloon, which was where the funeral was held.

Sheriff Eddie “Rocks” Knox showed up to snort at the pale cadaver before tap-tapping his oak peg leg over to the bar, where the owner of the establishment was complaining that he’d had more customers back in ’77, during that big spring blizzard that had heaped up eight-foot drifts on Copper Street.

Deputy “Pig” Slocum passed by to smirk at the dead man, then joined the sheriff at the bar, where he tucked away a half-dozen boiled eggs while drinking two mugs of beer.

Worst of all, Parris’s sweetheart showed up.

Why was this so unpleasant?

Because Miss Willow Skye, who had been the local schoolmarm right up to the day of the hanging, had turned over a new leaf or two.

First, the prim little lady had abandoned her noble avocation to pursue a new career. No, she had no aspiration to become president of the Ladies Temperance League. Her new title was Bar Room Floozy, and Miss Skye had (with her usual enthusiasm for new projects) gone for the whole nine yards. Loud, bawdy speech. Garish, low-cut dress. More makeup than would adorn a respectable circus clown’s face. She was
pushing watered-down whiskey across Copper Street at the Kentucky Saloon. Willow’s byline was, “Hi, cowboy—new in town?”

Her second leaf?

Willow showed up with her new boyfriend—Judge “Pug” Bullet.

It was almost too much for the corpse to bear. It wouldn’t have taken much more for Parris’s remains to get up and walk right out of there.

The dead man was greatly relieved when Charlie Moon arrived. Parris’s Ute friend wrapped his cold body in a red-and-black Indian trade blanket and tied it on the back of a fine, frisky pinto pony, which he led away toward the Columbine Ranch. On the way, Moon’s cell phone jangled.

No. That is absurd. There were no such instruments in 1877, and the dreamer is a stickler for historical accuracy and fictional authenticity. There must be a plausible explanation for the anomaly. . . . Hold on—stand by for a timely correction.

Here it is: the thing responsible for the infernal jangling was the cordless telephone by Scott Parris’s bed.

THE CHIEF
of police rolled over, grabbed the instrument, and pressed it to the side of his head. “H’lo?”

The voice was very faint and faraway and Parris was getting danged tired of being awakened by the telephone.

“Speak up—I can’t hear a damned thing you’re saying!”

When the caller shouted for
him
to talk louder, the bleary-eyed man realized that she was yelling
into his mouth
. He turned the phone around and spoke in that manner which is widely described as
sheepish.
“Who’s calling?”

She told him.

Before the bedside clock could say
tick-tock
, the chief of police was wide awake and had his big, bare feet on the floor. He nodded at the invisible person. “Sure. I can do that.”