Authors: James D. Doss
A Brief Study in Contrasts
The scenes at the Reed residence and at Charlie Moon’s home could hardly have been more dissimilar.
At the very
instant
when Irene Reed was perforating Chico Perez’s hide with lead slugs, the women in Mr. Moon’s life were cleaning off the supper table in the Columbine headquarters dining room.
As the emergency medical technician pronounced Irene Reed dead, Daisy Perika yawned a good-night to Sarah Frank, toddled down the hallway to enter her bedroom, closed the door, turned off the lights, crawled under the covers and—No.
What’s this?
Daisy did switch the lights off, but the fragile old soul
never made it to her bed
to crawl under the covers.
Something is definitely amiss.
The Prone Figure
A few minutes later, as Sarah slips under a colorful Amish quilt in the adjacent bedroom, Charlie Moon’s aunt is lying on the floor, in a narrow space between her bed and the oak-paneled wall. She is not moving a muscle.
Is Daisy Perika dead? It would appear so. Perhaps the aged woman has succumbed to a heart attack or stroke. Very sad. We can comfort ourselves with the thought that she went quickly.
But wait. Cup your ear. Do you hear that feeble thumpity-thump? Daisy’s heart still pumps.
Is she merely unconscious? Quite the contrary.
The tribal elder is wide awake and extraordinarily alert. She listens.
Listens to what?
Here is a hint: the side of Daisy Perika’s head rests on a cold metal vent.
This isolated factoid does not provide sufficient illumination to a murky situation? What one wants is a detailed elaboration?
Very well. Here it is: ducts are commonly installed underneath floors to provide pathways for heated air to flow from the furnace. When not serving that essential but rather noisy function, these conduits are excellent transmitters of sound. Especially between adjacent rooms.
Sly Old Fox
Daisy Perika waited until all she could hear from the bedroom next door was a rhythmic breathing, not unlike the peaceful sigh of a Hawaiian surf. Convinced that Sarah must be fast asleep, the crafty old woman pulled a canvas grocery bag from under her bed. After turning the floor lamp on, she emptied the fabric sack and placed her collection of Chico Perez memorabilia on the cedar chest of drawers. This was not going to be an easy task. Perez’s wallet had no sentimental value, but parting with his more
personal
property would be particularly painful. For the longest time, Daisy shifted her wistful gaze back and forth between the trophies. The more presentable of the prizes was tastefully displayed in a gallon Ziploc bag, and the others (a matched pair) were sealed in a mayonnaise jar half filled with alcohol.
Giving this stuff up will be like cutting off the fingers on my right hand, but if I get caught with it I’ll end up in prison sleeping on a rickety little cot with a smelly mattress that’s got more fleas and bedbugs than stuffing.
And that was just for starters.
All I’ll have to eat will be moldy month-old bread and dirty water from a rusty bucket.
The potential convict could not bear even to think about the toilet facilities.
Daisy had no choice but to dispose of her trophies straightaway.
I’ll hide them someplace where nobody’ll ever think of looking.
The wallet would also have to go, but not before she helped herself to Perez’s cash money.
It’s not like he needs it anymore.
Daisy would not learn until tomorrow that Chico Perez had survived her violent walking-stick assault—only to be shot to death by Irene Reed. As she was removing the greenbacks from the stolen wallet, the pickpocket realized that something was concealed in a space under the slot where Perez kept his Visa card, Colorado driver’s license, and Social Security card. Hoping to discover something of monetary interest in this hiding place, Daisy proceeded to investigate.
Sadly, there was no secret stash of folded money.
What she did find was another driver’s license, a second Social Security card, and a snapshot of a smiling woman.
Probably another one of his married girlfriends.
Daisy squinted at the picture.
I’m sure I’ve seen the face before, but I can’t remember where or when.
She examined the expired driver’s license and the tattered old Social Security card. Neither had been issued to Chico Perez, but the face in the photo on the out-of-state license was a dead ringer for the man Daisy had assaulted with her oak walking stick—except for one detail. In this older picture, the young man’s long hair was straight, and black as chimney soot.
But it’s Perez, all right.
The name on the concealed ID was different—and as hauntingly familiar as the woman’s face in the photograph.
Now where’ve I heard that name before?
As soon as Daisy posed the question, the recollection bubbled up from the shadowy depths of her memory.
So that’s who Perez really was.
It was indeed a small world, and now Daisy understood the
pitukupf
’s sinister warning.
It wasn’t Lyle Thoms the little runt was warning me about—it was this Perez devil.
This revelation buoyed her spirits almost as much as pocketing the bad man’s money.
Now I’m double-glad the rascal’s dead!
But, intriguing as this new twist was, it did nothing to alleviate the predicament Daisy found herself in. Despite the fact that Perez
had it coming,
the incriminating evidence of her noteworthy accomplishment still must be concealed—which vexed the old soul no end. The tribal elder found a dusty shoe box in her bedroom closet and removed a pair of shiny black shoes she hadn’t worn since attending a cousin’s funeral.
I’ll put everything in this box and then drop it into that old dry well behind the blacksmith’s shop.
A good start. But it is terribly hard to discard testimonials to one’s valiant deeds.
It is easy to compromise.
Daisy desperately needed some small memento to remember her adventure by.
I know what I’ll do—I’ll hold on to the woman’s picture; nobody could prove I took that from Perez.
This decision made, she slipped the snapshot into her purse and put the wallet with both sets of ID and the other evidence of her righteous assault into the shoe box. She wrapped the cardboard container in brown paper and secured the parcel with Scotch tape and two yards of white cotton twine.
There, that looks nice.
So nice that…
it seems like such a shame to toss it in a well.
A melancholy sigh.
But I can’t think of anything else to do….
Yes she could!
Daisy had experienced one of those delightful inspirations that—if she had been a 1950s cartoon character like petite Minnie Mouse or Li’l Abner’s pipe-smoking mammy—a hundred-watt light bulb would have flashed on above her head. And the more the plotter turned the notion over and looked at it from this way and that, the more she liked it. Inordinately pleased with herself, Daisy Perika cackled wickedly.
Had a sensitive soul such as Sarah Frank heard the cackle, she might have characterized it as
insanely
wicked. As it happened, the eighteen-year-old girl in the adjacent bedroom did hear the tribal elder’s guttural chuckle. Sort of. While she was asleep.
Sarah awakened from a pleasant dream with a startled expression on her face. She sat up in bed wondering what the matter was. Came up with a blank. The girl shuddered and hugged her knees.
Oh—I feel like something awful has just happened!
But (she assured herself) that was silly.
Nothing’s wrong.
And so the innocent laid her head back onto a billowy feather pillow, pulled the handsome quilt up to her chin, and yawned. Within a few heartbeats she was fast asleep.
It was sheer coincidence that the cinematic dream Sarah drifted into was a big-budget production starring Aunt Daisy.
It was pure chance that the vicious old woman was wearing a bloody butcher’s apron.
And mere happenstance that the tribal elder—armed with an equally bloody butcher knife—was carving up a sizable side of meat.
Which wasn’t beef.
A Long Night’s Work
Charlie Moon did what he could to assist his friend.
Scott Parris knew he’d messed up big-time and got ready to take his lumps. He set his square jaw, sucked in his gut, and got right at the awkward duty of briefing a half-dozen astonished GCPD cops and a couple of hard-eyed state-police officers on the clandestine stakeout. Parris did not mention the bet he’d made that he could keep Sam Reed alive until June 5, or the fact that the wealthy man had paid for the dubious services rendered by his bodyguards. There was no concealing the fact that the double homicide had occurred while the chief of police and his Indian friend were close enough to toss a rock at Chico Perez.
As a welcome diversion from this singular humiliation, Doc Simpson showed up “all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed” (as he described himself) and got right to work. After a cursory examination of Mrs. Reed’s remains, the county medical examiner pronounced her demise as “…primarily due to crushed fourth and fifth cervical vertebrae.” The sprightly octogenarian appended an incomprehensible string of medical et ceteras that was pointedly ignored by the collection of cops.
While the ME was occupying center stage, the chief of police was discreetly advised by Officer Alicia Martin that a grief-stricken and dazed Samuel Reed was wandering around aimlessly throughout the premises, mumbling over and over that he could “hardly believe that such a horrible thing could happen in my home.” Parris read the riot act gently but firmly to the bereaved spouse. “Your home is an official crime scene, Professor Reed. You’ll have to bunk somewhere else for a few days.” Officer Martin graciously offered to drive the befuddled man wherever he’d like to go, and made several helpful suggestions.
Sam Reed agreed to be transported to the Silver Mountain Hotel, which thriving enterprise he could have purchased for a tiny fraction of his liquid assets.
Throughout all this frenetic activity, Charlie Moon had little more to do than verify Scott Parris’s testimony about the evening’s bloody events and provide moral support to his best friend. When, at about half past one, the tribal investigator deemed his duty done, he said good night to Parris and took leave of the official commotion. Moon maneuvered his Expedition out of the guest-house garage and threaded his way through a congregation of official vehicles. The sleek beetles winked and blinked bright red and blue eyes at him.
An Incomplete Metamorphosis
As he rolled along on the highway toward home, Scott Parris’s part-time deputy was gradually being transformed into a full-time rancher—his face set toward greener pastures. The nearer Charlie Moon got to the reality of his vast cattle ranch, the more this night’s misadventure seemed like a lurid piece of fantasy. By the time he made a right turn, the bizarre double killing had taken on the surreal aspect of an absurd nightmare.
He slowed, pressed the gate-control button on his key chain, then—
I forgot that the gate’s broken
. But, to Moon’s surprise, it opened in response to the radio-frequency command.
This blessing was gratefully received.
Maybe my foreman or one of the cowboys got it working again.
The amiable rancher felt a twinge of guilt.
I guess I was a little hard on that pushy technician who wanted to sell me a high-tech gate controller.
He smiled at the thought of calling from a telephone in China to open a gate in Colorado. As the creaky gate clanged shut behind him and Moon began to smell the earthy aromas of his home on the range, he decided to put the matter entirely out of his mind.
And almost succeeded.
Somewhere in the multidimensional depths of that vast inner space that clinical psychologists and cocktail-party experts refer to as the
subconscious,
Charlie Moon’s brain was hard at work. At about the time the Expedition slipped silently by the foreman’s residence, something ugly bubbled up. As the big rubber tires went rattling across the Too Late Creek bridge, Moon began to get a glimmer of a sinister notion. He parked under his favorite cottonwood and fixed his gaze on a bright star. How long he remained behind the steering wheel, watching the illusion of a distant sun slipping through the night sky while the seemingly immobile earth rotated, Mr. Moon neither knew nor cared. He spent the hours before dawn adding things up, fitting together pieces of a puzzle whose misshapen elements might have been created by a demented jigsaw operator.
At about that fine time when first light began to shine like heaven’s smile and the warm morning began to flow over the high prairie, the lawman realized that even if he was right, nothing could be done about it—not by district attorneys, juries of peers, or solemn judges. Moreover, Moon could not quite shake off the notion that…
this might be one of those times when it’s best just to leave things alone.
Despite this night’s bloody history, the dawning morning was filled with sweet mystery. As Moon watched the edge of the sun explode over the mountains to make another day, he smiled as he remembered what his father used to say. When the old man was presented with a knotty problem by the woman of the house, Daddy would lift his chin, grin at little Charlie’s mother, and repeat the familiar deferral that had annoyed his wife no end.
Somewhere out there, Daddy’s words were forming in the atmosphere.
Sifting through new cottonwood leaves, the early-morning breeze breathed a whisper, which formed between Moon’s lips.
I’ll have to think on it.
And he did.
What it finally all boiled down to was,
If it wasn’t for Sam Reed, the Columbine would be shut down.
The rancher owed him a staggering debt.
But what do you give a man who can pay hard cash for anything the world has to offer? Something money can’t buy. Friendship. But Reed didn’t need a week-kneed, fair-weather buddy who’d shrug off what was dead wrong and make feeble excuses like, “In this hard world, a man sometimes has to do hard things.” No, what the rich man needed was a stand-up friend who’d do his level best to make things
right
.
Charlie Moon was that man.