A Dead Man's Tale (22 page)

The Final Hours

After his turn as lookout, the chief of police settled into a comfortable armchair. With a satisfying yawn, Scott Parris clasped his hands across his chest and closed his eyes.

Charlie Moon stationed himself at the window that framed a moonlit landscape with the Reed residence as its centerpiece. The sprawling brick house seemed to be waiting for whatever might happen when the eleventh hour tolled. The night was rolling in from the mountains like molten obsidian and the stillness was absolutely crystalline. After a few hundred heartbeats, Moon had almost lost track of why he was here. And where
here
was, on the face of a weary planet that had tired of turning and was gradually slowing to a halt. Presently, it seemed as if Time itself had stopped to take a nap.

By and by the illusion was shattered by a frolicsome wind that drifted in to worry last year’s brown grasses and agitate a sedate community of crispy leaves into a swirl of frenzied confusion. Its preparatory work complete, the playful breeze departed to other venues and fresh mischief, but only to be replaced by her older, more serious sibling, who came with gusty huffs. Big Sister’s bluffing puffs did not amount to much. A madcap tumbleweed bounced and rolled across Reed’s backyard. Spindly bone-white aspen branches flailed with feigned anxiety; newborn leaves chattered with childish laughter.

All this was taking its toll on Charlie Moon.

It was one of those black, bittersweet evenings when a man calls to mind faded images of a long-lost sweetheart; days and opportunities that have slipped away forever. His soul shrouded in inner twilight, Moon listened to sorrowful winds whine and sigh in the pines. The lonely man sighed along with them.

Unaware of the Ute’s uncharacteristic angst, and Parris’s worries that Mrs. Reed was onto the game, Samuel Reed would have given a week’s income for the ability to imitate the steely coolness of this pair of silent men, but he could feel a bad case of the fidgets coming on. What the man of business sorely needed was something to keep him busy, but he found himself with nothing to do but pace. Clear his throat. Check his wristwatch. And, from time to time, mumble incomprehensibly.

Scott Parris cracked the lid of his left eye at the hyperactive fellow. “It’s liable to be a long night.” The lawmen did not intend to leave before dawn. “Why don’t you stretch out on the bed and catch yourself a few winks.”
And quit being such a botheration.

Samuel Reed replied in a tone that was very close to being tart, “Because I am not sleepy.” Like a caged cougar perpetually looking for a way out, the edgy man stalked around the bedroom, eyeing every shadowy corner, measuring the height of the walls. Evidently finding no means of escape, he strode across the carpeted floor to the window. Unable to peer over the tall Indian’s shoulder, Reed asked, “Do you see anything interesting?”

The Ute nodded.

The curious fellow elevated himself on tiptoes. “What?”

“Rabbit in the flower bed.”

“Oh.” Withdrawing to pick up a tiny cup of freshly brewed espresso from the bedside table, Reed took a tentative sip before gulping what was left down his gullet. As the overdose of caffeine began to do a buzz-job on his brain, he began to think about his wife with an intensity of interest that surprised him.
I wonder what Irene is doing at this very moment.
Something inexplicable, no doubt.
Probably painting her toenails pink.
Which was pointless, since Mrs. Reed’s toenails were naturally pink.
Or plucking her eyebrows out by the roots.
The mystified spouse sighed.
And then drawing fake eyebrows on her skin with a pencil.
Wondering what Irene might be
doing
was not the end of Reed’s curiosity; the wealthy man would have given a tidy sum to know what his missus was
thinking
about. Despite being endowed with a remarkable intellect that managed most knotty issues quite well, Samuel Reed shared one characteristic with ordinary men—the minds of women in general and his wife’s in particular were an impenetrable mystery to the scientist-turned-entrepreneur. He plopped his butt onto the bed.
What I need is another cup of espresso.
He got up. Cleared his throat again. Checked his wristwatch again. Mumbled incomprehensibly again. Began to pace again. And—

All this motion and commotion was disturbing Scott Parris’s catnap.
Enough already.
Something had to be done to terminate this infernal pacing about, bed plopping, throat clearing, timepiece checking, and whatnot—and the chief of police was just the man to do it. For a fellow accustomed to saying howdy to felons with a ham-size fist in the face, Parris was uncommonly gentle. “Charlie, seems to me it’s Sam’s turn to spin a yarn.”

The almost-invisible Ute might have nodded his black John B. Stetson. It was too dark to tell for sure.

“Sorry, fellas—but I’ll have to pass.” Reed raised his hands in a self-effacing gesture. “I don’t know any good stories.”

The town cop responded with that eloquent silence reserved for whiners, welchers, and teammates who did not pull their weight.

The amiable Ute offered a helpful suggestion: “You could tell us how you got rich as Fort Knox.”

Reed spoke to the Indian’s back. “I would be embarrassed to provide a dry account of my investment activities, particularly after the splendid entertainment you two have served up tonight.” A chuckle bubbled up from his belly. “I mean, a knuckle-dragging ape chasing a lady jogger across the golf course—and the county’s most respected rancher hiring out as an assassin for twenty-five cents per hit. Really, now—how could a stodgy businessman compete with such imaginative tales as that?”

Parris told him how: “You could lie a little bit.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I could do
that
.” Reed frowned, but there was a merry sparkle in his eye.

Charlie Moon stared at the windowpane. “It’s not flat-out lying unless you can convince us it’s the truth.”

Parris nodded. “And me and Charlie promise not to believe a solitary word you say.”

The Ute’s voice was silky soft. “Think of it as creative fiction.”

“I’d like to oblige, really I would.” Samuel Reed kicked his toe at a hideous flower that seemed to be growing out of the carpet.
That’s what I get for allowing Irene to decorate the guest house.
“But there is simply no way to make a story about myself entertaining.” The middle-aged man smirked. “Unless I sprinkled it with lurid sexual exploits and truckloads of gratuitous violence.”

“It works on TV,” Parris said.

But not for Charlie Moon. “What I had in mind was something that would educate me and Scott. In hard times like this, we could benefit from knowing how to invest any spare dollar we might come across.” The lookout watched a cottontail munch at a tender sprout. “We’d be much obliged if you’d give us some pointers.”

“Of course. Such as how to place bets on sporting events.” Reed ground the offensive carpet-rose under his heel. “And how to predict next week’s price of beef.”

“That’d be a great help to a rancher like myself.” Moon waited for a heartbeat. “And while you’re at it, you could tell us why you’re so sure that somebody plans to shoot you dead tonight.”

Scott Parris was instantly alert.
Charlie’s onto something.

“A successful investor does not share his trade secrets,” Reed replied. “Not even with his closest friends.”

“Then make up something,” the town cop said. “Tell us whatever comes into your head.”

Barely aware of Parris’s presence in the guest-house bedroom, the canny investor fixed his entire attention on the tribal investigator’s back. “I am tempted to have a go at it.” He paused for a few heartbeats. “But fiction is not my long suit.”

“Take your time,” Moon said softly. “I expect you’ll come up with something.”

Reed’s small audience waited.

And waited.

The Indian’s still form at the window might have been chiseled from stone.

Parris might have been sound asleep.

Even the wind in the pines had fallen to the merest whisper.

It seemed that the ensuing silence would never end.

Until Samuel Reed cleared his throat. And began.

The Scientist-Entrepreneur’s Story

“I’ve come up with a first-rate corker!” The edgy physicist seated himself on the edge of the bed. “Forget all about crazed apes that pursue terrified ladies across golf courses and hard-up ranchers that hire out as two-bit assassins—compared to the tallness of my tale, such occurrences are utterly commonplace.” He twirled a finger in the air. “I am about to spin a yarn that’ll set your heads to gyrating.”

If Moon had been a fox, his ears would’ve pricked at this. They did.

If Parris had been a ’possum, he would’ve grinned. He did.

The over-caffeinated storyteller got up from the bed and strutted across the dimly illuminated room. “In the interest of complete disclosure and utterly disarming honesty, I shall stipulate right up front that my offering is presented entirely in the interest of entertainment.” He cast a sly glance at the Ute. “By no means do I intend to convey the impression that there is the least grain of truth in it.”

Sam Reed’s glance had not gone unnoticed by Scott Parris.
Something’s going on between him and Charlie, and I’d give a week’s wages to know what it is.
The wallet in his hip pocket felt paper-thin.
Okay, let’s say a day’s pay.

Without shifting his gaze from Professor Reed’s upscale residence, Charlie Moon leaned against the window frame and settled in to enjoy the slippery man’s performance.
This oughta be good.

It oughta and it would.

Clasping his hands behind his waist, Reed began to pace back and forth alongside the bed. “In strictest confidence, I shall reveal the secret of my enviable success as the business world’s most remarkable prognosticator.” Inordinately pleased with this opening line, the consummate actor helped himself to a deep breath. He expelled it with: “So. How do you fellows like it so far?”

Parris shrugged. Also grunted.

When the taciturn Indian did not respond, Reed paused in mid-stride. “And what say you, Mr. Moon?”

Silence hung heavily around the Ute, like the atmosphere gets just before a rip-snorting cyclone comes a-whirling over the prairie to yank trees up, roots and all. Moon’s response was like a rumble of distant thunder. “I’d say you haven’t quite got started yet.”

“A fair observation.” Reed affected a worried look. “I must admit to some apprehension.” Pure, unadulterated malarkey—the narrator was as cool as the evening breeze. “In fact, I am not sure I should continue.” Six strong men with a hundred yards of duct tape could not have sealed his lips.

The Ute-thunder rumbled closer. “Why’s that?”

“What I have to say is likely to prove unnerving. Perhaps even ruin your day.”

“Go right ahead,” Moon said.

“Very well, if you insist.” He restarted his pacing, paused after three strides. “In this tale, I shall refer to an entirely fictitious version of myself. With that fact in mind—and despite my natural modesty—I shall present my compelling narrative in that popular form known as ‘first person.’”

“Works for me,” Parris muttered.

“Prepare yourselves for a shock.” Samuel Reed drew himself up to his full height. “I do not foresee the future—I
remember
it.”

The tale-spinner had captured his small audience’s attention. Charlie Moon and Scott Parris waited for the narrative’s next line. And continued to wait.

Until the white cop had had enough. “Well?” Parris growled.

Reed arched an eyebrow. “Well,
what
?”

The cop added a scowl to the growl. “You tell us you remember what’s going to happen, and that’s it—the whole shebang?”

“Certainly.” The storyteller assumed an innocent expression. “For those present who are not familiar with common literary forms, my nine-word narrative was what is known in the trade as a
short
story.”

Moon couldn’t help but grin.

Parris’s mouth gaped. “Then that’s The End?”

Reed pursed his lips. “Just so.”

This wasn’t fair, and Scott Parris’s mild fair-weather scowl was beginning to turn stormy. The cop who’d killed a half-dozen felons and maimed more malefactors than he bothered to recall resorted to the most cruel violence of all—harsh literary criticism: “Well I don’t mean to sound picky, but it’d be nice to hear how a human being could ‘remember’ what hadn’t happened yet.”

“Yes.” Reed sighed. “I am also curious about that point. But unlike highly proficient yarn-spinners who sit on the courthouse steps seven days a week, whiling away their idle hours squirting tobacco spittle from between their lips and whittling pine knots into curious shapes, I lack the talent to fabricate a five-hundred-page novel right on the spot. However, if I should wake up in the middle of the night with nothing important to occupy my mind, I might give the matter some thought.” He smiled at the lawmen. “Perhaps on some future occasion, as we three chummy hardcases sit around a smoky campfire chewing on rancid buffalo jerky and sipping cowboy java whilst filtering grounds betwixt the comical gaps in our teeth, I will flesh out my story with a few lines of explanatory prose.”

The disgruntled cop shook his head.
What a crappy cop-out.
Internally, Parris made that rude sound that is known in vulgar circles as “the raspberry.” He might as well have expressed his opinion aloud.

Even your hard-boiled storyteller is not without feelings, and Samuel Reed’s had every reason to be hurt. The man apparently had skin like a rhinoceros. “Thank you for your kind attention; this little exercise in fiction has been amusing.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “But fun does not pay the bills; business must be attended to. Please excuse me for a few minutes while I do.” With this, their host withdrew from the guest-house bedroom.

Tending to His Business

Samuel Reed seated himself at his desk in the parlor, where he busied himself with his computer.

This activity proved to be both effective and profitable.

The investor contacted a broker in St. Louis and sold two thousand shares of General Electric (it would tumble two dollars by tomorrow afternoon). He also called a gaming agency in Reno to place modest wagers on several sporting events. A Dublin horse race (Danny Boy’s Luck would win by a nose), a middleweight prizefight in Chicago (Raymond Dymouski would dance in his corner while LeRoy “Sweet Evening Breeze” Washington took a refreshing nap at center ring, a championship bicycle-polo game in Mexico City (the all-star team from Canada would rout the frustrated Colombians), and so on and so forth and et cetera. The entrepreneur did not rest until all his tasks were completed. All told, Reed’s profits during this brief interlude would amount to a mere forty-two thousand dollars and change, but by such modest gains are mighty fortunes made.

While Professor Sam Reed was tending to his business, he was unaware that Scott Parris had taken up the lookout post at the bedroom window. And that Charlie Moon was standing behind him, peering over his shoulder at the computer display.

The Ute poker player, who had placed a few bets on ball games in his days, couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to “remember” who’d won the Super Bowl or the World Series
before
the games were played. An absurd fantasy, of course. And even if a man had an advantage like that, sooner or later his luck would run out. Those hard-eyed, coldhearted fellows who make a living off folks that can’t stay away from fancy card tables, spinning roulette wheels, and noisy slots might not be Rhodes Scholars, but neither were they simpletons. One way or another, they’d be bound to find out about a high roller who consistently won more bets than the Laws of Probability permitted. The fact that Sam Reed was still alive suggested that the wealthy man was either extraordinarily cautious or very lucky. Or both. Charlie Moon’s interest was piqued when Reed opened a commodities-trends Web site. The cattle rancher naturally shared Reed’s interest in a graph that charted the hourly prices of American beef.

When Samuel Reed left the commodities page to peruse Bloomberg .com, Charlie Moon lost interest in the businessman’s business. He returned to the bedroom, where Scott Parris was at the window, watching a black owl-shadow slip over the moonlit ground like the dark preview of an upcoming nightmare.

Within a minute, Sam Reed also entered the bedroom. “My business is taken care of.” But it wasn’t. He paused, blinked like a man remembering something. “Oops, almost forgot. There’s one last matter to check on.” He punched several keys on a cell phone, then dialed a preprogrammed number. When the process was complete, the investor made a low whistle. “Just as I expected, the market for beef is leveling off.” He aimed a questioning gaze at the Ute rancher. “By tomorrow, prices will begin to slip. I do hope you have sold your splendid whiteface cattle.”

Charlie Moon nodded. “And I’m much obliged to you, sir. Without your tip, the Columbine would be in deep trouble.”

“It was a distinct pleasure to be of assistance.” Reed resumed his seat on the bed.

The rancher was mildly amused at his host’s duplicity.
Sam Reed checked the beef prices on his computer a few minutes ago, so the telephone call was all for show.
But to what purpose?
I guess he wanted to remind me that I’m indebted to him.
Which was probably nothing more than the shadowy side of his host’s human nature. But a second possibility made Moon uneasy. What if the wealthy man had some kind of payback in mind?

A Woman’s Work

While Samuel Reed, Scott Parris, and his Ute deputy were preparing for the climax—or anticlimax—to this evening’s minor melodrama, Mrs. Reed—all alone in her upscale home—was not idle. Like her husband, the lady was busy tending to business. Irene was putting her house in order. It is rightly said that a woman’s work is never done, and it would be impractical to provide a detailed list of her various tasks. Suffice it to say that Samuel Reed’s spouse was
arranging
things. What in particular?

Oh, this and that.

A pair of antique coin-silver candlesticks on the purple porphyry mantelpiece.

A selection of white and yellow rosebuds in a delicate Connecticut cranberry vase.

Also schedules, without which a household cannot properly function.

As she arranged, the lady was thinking. About her invariably prompt husband, who was due home at 11
P.M
. And about that other, younger man in her life.

As it happened, only about nine miles away as the owl-shadow flies, that
other man
was about to receive the most significant communication in a life that had—especially of late—been filled to overflowing with jarring events.