The Widow's Revenge (39 page)

Accepting the lady’s invitation to “belly up to the table,” the guest hung his black John B. Stetson on the back of one sturdy chair and seated himself in another. The modest fellow shrugged off Loyola’s “Thank you so much!” for an unspecified favor that she was “so grateful” for. It is true that women know the way to a man’s heart and also a fact that Mr. Moon knows how to express his appreciation—he let out a
great big wa-hoo! when Loyola pulled a pan of hot cookies from the oven
.

Those happy souls who expect blessings are seldom disappointed. Charlie Moon found the hot pastries to be very tasty. Without batting an eye, he’d have bet you ten to one that Loyola’s recipe for oatmeal, piñon-nut, red chili pepper, and pimento cookies was a sure thing for a blue ribbon in next year’s La Plata County Fair
.

CHARLIE MOON’S STRICTLY-BUSINESS EX-GIRLFRIEND HAD NO TIME FOR
dreaming.

Special Agent L. M. McTeague and eighteen of her colleagues who were working the Cannibal Family case would be wide awake for thirty-six hours after the lady hung up on Charlie Moon. The Tiger Team would inspect the booking records for Granite Creek’s Silver Mountain Hotel and every other hostelry within fifty miles for the period when the potential Trout was spotted by Charlie Moon. Rancher Hobart Watkins would be grilled about a woman he could barely remember until he finally lost his temper and ordered the relentless federal cops off the Little Texas.

The tireless FBI agents would also examine every available database to identify potential suspects.

The criteria for phase one of TROUT-Donner search were:

• Female Caucasian (or Caucasoid), Age > Fifty-five.
  
• A criminal record involving felony offenses.
  

The search produced 15,802 hits, which caused considerable moaning and groaning among the feds clustered about the computer terminal.

McTeague reminded her colleagues about the Snyder Memorial Hospital massacre. Perhaps Trout had been the stand-in nurse. Team consensus was that it was worth a shot.

Specifying that the suspect should have sufficient training and/or experience to pass herself off as a qualified nurse reduced the population to a mere 18. After the backslapping and cheering were over, a sad-eyed statistician informed the Tiger Team that this result was “of limited utility.” Why so? Because—for 12,044 subjects of the 15,802, the database listed “No Information” on medical qualifications. One way or another,
the population must be narrowed down to a manageable number
based upon data actually available
.

The clever fellow behind the bifocals knew everything worth knowing about frequency, binomial and chi-squared distributions, not to mention standard deviations, inferences from sample means, and the like. Everyone knew he was right, but at that moment the statistician was the least popular member of the team.

Other approaches were tried, with no more success and no less “nitpicking” from the finicky academic. Somewhat subdued by meaningful glares from several armed colleagues, he decided to hold his tongue. But the man was not made of stone. When no one was looking, the critic would shake his head. Roll his eyes.

McTeague, who had been holding something back from her associates, decided it was high time to play her hole card. Not in the mood for advice from the learned opposition, she shot a warning glance at the human number cruncher who dreamed nightly about subtle implications of the Central Limit Theorem, potential forensic applications of the Leptokurtic Curve, and that gorgeous redheaded waitress at the Five-Spot Diner whom he lusted after and intended to woo and wed.

Well. Talk about your long shot.

No, not the statistician’s aspirations regarding the shapely waitress. (She was eagerly awaiting the shy man’s first “hello.”) The long-shot reference was to the playing of the ace of clubs that Miss McTeague had up her sleeve.

Charlie Moon’s former main squeeze mentioned her ex’s remark about Trout’s opthalmological impairment. It was (McTeague suggested) just barely possible that sometime during her disreputable career, Trout, aka Daphne Donner, had sought medical treatment for strabismus. Or tropia. Or crossed eyes.

This was greeted with everything from “go for it!” to languid “why not?” shrugs.

A graduate of Harvard Law School advised her that a warrant would be required to search confidential medical databases.

As it happened, McTeague had already secured the necessary permissions from a federal judge, which foresight on her part enabled FBI
computer specialists to immediately initiate searches of a multitude of medical databases. With a little luck, there would be a few cross-eyed females in the base list of 15,802 potential suspects. With a lot of luck, fewer than ten.

Six floors beneath them, in a subbasement, a Cray CX1 mainframe munched on bits and bytes of its digital lunch.

Crunchity-crunch.

The tension afflicting the FBI Tiger Team? Thick enough to slice with a Bowie knife and spread on sourdough bread.

A half-dozen slightly superstitious Tigers crossed their fingers.

Four team members prayed. (Three believers and an agnostic who habitually hedged her bets.)

A special agent from Reno (who talked to roulette wheels and dice) stared pleadingly at the computer terminal and whispered, “C’mon, baby—cough up Momma Cannibal’s name!”

They waited for hours while thirty-six seconds passed into the past.

Beep!
The result flashed on the Sony display.

“Well, bless my sweet soul!” The delighted lady at the keyboard turned to smile at her colleagues. “We got
one
hit, and it’s from that group of eighteen that has enough medical training to pass as a nurse.” Which (bless her sweet soul again) included an address.

The potential Trout had served as a U.S. Navy nurse until she received a dishonorable discharge for purloining cocaine from the base pharmacy. And just last year, she had consulted a specialist in Detroit about her strabismus.

The Tiger Team let loose with lusty hurrahs, happy backslappings, even an impromptu tap-dancing display by a limber young fellow from Kansas City, MO.

The ecstatic statistician? He treated himself to a hint of a smile.

AT PRECISELY 3 A.M.
the following morning, seven armed-for-bear Bureau agents approached a remote farmhouse in North Dakota’s Sheridan County. Excepting the raspy death rattle of a rusty windmill, there was
not a sound on the moonlit prairie. Aside from a sizable family of hungry, beady-eyed rodents, no one was inside to resent their presence.

Some six months earlier, a Minneapolis bank (since failed) had fore-closed on the abandoned property.

Disappointed but not discouraged, the Bureau began a detailed search of the premises and grounds for any clue to the identity of the former inhabitants of the site aptly dubbed “Cannibal Farm.” They would vacuum up every scrap of dusty debris in the house and outbuildings for detailed analysis, lift partial fingerprints from window glass and door-knobs, and examine every scrap of trash to determine preferences in such products as cigarettes, canned foods, toothpaste, and toilet tissue. The dogged special agents would also interrogate every neighbor within ten miles, and . . . No. Enough already.

Let it merely be said—for the benefit of any misguided citizen who might be considering a fling at counterfeiting, kidnaping, or bank robbery—federal cops are a tenacious lot.

NO, NOT THE LOVELY LAKE SET LIKE A GLISTENING JEWEL IN THE COLUM
bine’s alpine pasture. This body of water is considerably larger than the bijou Lake Jesse, and is located about 1,250 miles east of Charlie Moon’s ranch. The reference is to Barkley Lake, which adorns the lush green hills of western Kentucky
.

The character who has recently arrived at the lakeshore to close a deal on the rental of a seven-bedroom, three-bath log “cabin” is the same person who had forwarded the improvised explosive devices (detonators disabled) via FedEx to one Bill Smith, c/o Columbine Ranch, Granite Creek County, Colorado. (The Columbine has its own Zip Code, but in respect for Mr. Moon’s privacy that information shall not be revealed.)

CONDUCTING FAMILY BUSINESS

The seventy-six-year-old woman (who prefers to think of herself as late-middle-aged) had an understandable distaste for credit cards and checking accounts. Such conveniences made it relatively easy for the legally constituted authorities to snoop about in one’s private enterprises. Which was why she made the entire prepayment in cash.

“Well, well.” The overweight real estate agent rubbed his palms together, eyed the neat stack of crispy greenbacks the lady had placed on his desk—and the purse she had taken it from. “That’s a fair-size pile of money.”

The client, who was “Mrs. Yolanda Hepplewhite” this month, snapped her oversized leather purse shut as a precaution. It would complicate matters if the nosy stranger got a look at the silenced .32-caliber automatic that she’d come
this close
to using during her fortuitous hotel encounter
with the skinny Ute Indian whose continued presence among the living remained a festering thorn in her flesh. (For the record, she would as soon have collected samples of belly-button fuzz from so-called celebrities as their autographs.) “I’ll move into the cabin immediately. The rest of my party will be arriving within the hour.”

“Well, I hope y’all all have a fine old time.” The courteous businessman pretended not to notice how, when this client looked at him with her right eye—her left one seemed to be gazing at something behind him.

Her crooked smile betrayed a hint of amusement at his discomfort. “I’m sure that we shall.”

The avaricious fellow pulled the currency close to his belly. “So what’s the big event—a get-together of some sort?”

“A family reunion.” She was reading the fine print in the rental agreement with her right eye. “But sad to say, it will not be all that large.” Her tinted lips went thin. “What with one thing and another, there are less of us every year.”

“I know what you mean.” He breathed a heavy sigh. “All of my family’s either moved away or in the cemetery.”

Looking up from the contract, she blinked behind her trifocals. “You’re all by yourself, then?”

He nodded. “Ever since my dear wife passed last September.”

“I’m so sorry.” She wasn’t. “I just had a thought.” She had. “We’re planning a barbecue tomorrow night. Nothing fancy, mind you—but I would be so pleased if you would join us at the feast.”

“Well, that’s mighty nice of you.” He put on a doubtful look that was as artificial as her sorrow at his bereavement. “But I don’t know that I should barge in, being an outsider and all.”

“Nonsense. We will be delighted to have the pleasure of your company.”

“D’you really mean that?”

“I certainly do.” Her smile was sweet and charming. “And I will simply
refuse
to sign this contract unless you agree to be our guest of honor.”

The real estate agent’s good-natured chuckle shook his ample stomach. “Well, since you put it like that, I’ll be much obliged to accept your invitation.”

“Very well, then—it’s settled.” The so-called Mrs. Hepplewhite signed on the dotted line.

The rental agent slipped the signed contract into a desk drawer. “I sure do appreciate your invitation to supper tomorrow night. On the way, I’ll stop by the deli and pick up some potato salad—”

“Don’t bother.” The gourmand licked her lips. “Just bring yourself.”

THE EN—

No. Not to worry.

The plump Kentuckian did not end up as the main course at a Family picnic. Our amiable rental agent was spared that ignominious end.

Though the FBI’s farmhouse raid in North Dakota was not a spectacular success, every run of bad luck has to end someday, and the Bureau finally got a break when a sleepy member of the cannibal clan carelessly stuck the
wrong
plastic rectangle into a slot on a gas pump in Cadiz, Kentucky. The VISA card, which had been stolen three days earlier in Chillicothe, Ohio, should have been discarded within twelve hours. That was one of Trout’s Rules. Not caring to confess his blunder to the woman whom he regarded with justifiable terror, the fellow who committed the inexcusable error tossed the rejected card into a trash can already half filled with wadded blue paper towels and . . . hoped for the best.

Before the guest of honor showed up for the feast, Special Agent McTeague and sixteen male FBI comrades were joined by enough Kentucky state troopers to mount a successful assault on a medium-size Ca ribbe an island. The rental cabin was surrounded; there would be no escape for “Yolanda Hepplewhite,” who was busy preparing her mother’s special secret-recipe BBQ sauce. They would also put an end to the vaunted A Team, which was comprised of the cross-eyed woman’s three extremely mean brothers and a second cousin whose hobby was suffocating infant—