Shadow Man (5 page)

The tribal investigator and the white man walked along the rutted road toward the mouth of
Cañón del Espíritu.
The long-legged Ute slowed his pace to allow his companion to keep up. “Well, Dr. Blinkoe, what’s on your mind?”

“Business. I understand that you are a private investigator.”

“I hold a license, but the cattle business keeps me pretty busy. Now and then I do an odd job for the tribal chairman, but that’s about it.”

“You are too modest.”

Moon grinned. “You think so?”

“I have heard about the excellent work you did for Senator Davidson.”

The Ute’s antenna pricked up. “Where’d you hear about that?”

“Word gets around.”

Moon hoped that not too much word had gotten around about that fiasco. If the whole truth ever came out, he could end up doing a long vacation in a federal resort.

“And there’s that investigation you did for Jane Cassidy—the woman praises you to the skies.” The sedentary man was getting slightly short of breath. “On top of that, you come highly recommended by the Granite Creek chief of police.”

The Ute stopped to look down at the odd man. “You know Scott?”

“I met him just last week.” Blinkoe avoided the dark man’s penetrating stare. “I suppose you’ve heard about the deplorable incident at Phillipe’s.”

Moon had heard. “You’re the guy who was on the patio—with the woman who got shot.”

“I was not precisely
with
her. I was dining alone that evening, as was the unfortunate lady.” He shot the Indian a quick glance. “Did Chief Parris tell you about me?”

“He didn’t have to. I saw your picture in the local rag.”

“Oh, of course. The newspaper.” Blinkoe’s lips tightened. “I detest any sort of personal publicity.”

“From what I recall, you’re the only witness to the shooting.”

“Which is not much help, I’m afraid. The shot was fired from someplace behind me. On the far side of the stream I should think.”

“So you didn’t see the shooter?”

Blinkoe shook his head. “It was quite dark except on the patio, which was illuminated by some absurdly tawdry Chinese lanterns.” He swatted at a black wasp that buzzed past his nose.

“So why do you want to talk to me?”

The worried man bit his lip. “I think you may be able to help me.” He clamped his mouth shut, tried to think of precisely how to approach the matter.

Moon decided to give the potential client all the time he needed.

They approached a narrow ribbon of a stream that trickled out of the mouth of Spirit Canyon.

The hunter’s Savage 110FP Tactical Rifle was chambered for .300 Winchester Magnum—one of the best long-range cartridges available. He found a suitable spot behind a juniper, seated himself cross-legged, rested the rifle barrel in a notch between the trunk and a limb. Like all effective plans, this one was simple. Put a round through the primary target, then drop the Indian cop. A homemade silencer was screwed onto the end of the barrel, so the shot wouldn’t be heard by the old woman in the trailer or the lawyer who was her guest. He had no interest in these bystanders. Blinkoe was who he’d come to kill. Once he had gotten the job done, he would walk back to the truck, hide the rifle in the concealed compartment welded under the pickup bed, drive away like an innocent tourist. It would probably be at least an hour before the survivors began to wonder why Blinkoe and the Indian hadn’t returned, another thirty minutes before they went looking for them.
And by the time they find the bodies and put a call in to the police, I’ll be miles and miles away.

He closed his left eye, squinted his right at the high-tech, antishake 9X telescope.
Okay…there they are. But a little fuzzy.
He thumbed the focus knob, noted the distance on the in-scope range finder digital readout.
A hundred and thirty-two yards. Not exactly a slam-dunk, but I can do it.
The marksman placed the crosshairs on Manfred Blinkoe’s spine, snugged his finger up to the trigger. And had an unsettling thought.
If I take Blinkoe out first, the skinny Indian might take a dive into the bushes and slip away. I have to kill them both. It’d make more sense to drop the athletic-looking spear chucker with the first shot, then pop Blinkoe.
With an almost imperceptible movement of the heavy rifle, he laid the crosshairs on the Indian’s chest. The Ute was nodding, evidently responding to something Blinkoe was saying.
Okay, Tonto. You’ve got about three seconds left to live.
His finger began to tighten on the trigger.
Nobody on earth or in heaven can save you now….

A sudden gust rattled the juniper branches.

“Damn—damn!” he muttered. Even a mild breeze would make this a marginal shot, and now the wind was tossing dust in his face. He thought it over.
I can’t afford to miss. There’s only one way out of this place, and it’s a long drive back to the paved highway. If the survivor dials 911 and reports a sniper, the local cops could throw up a roadblock before I could get back to the pavement.

He waited for the annoying wind to subside.

It did not.

It seemed to have come to stay.

It was time to call it a day. This descendant of Cain was not overly troubled. There would be another time. Another opportunity. The essential thing was to stay in the game. He slung the nylon rifle strap over his shoulder, departed as silently as he had come.

Blinkoe picked up a small stick, pitched it into the crystalline water. He took a childlike pleasure in the small splash his minuscule missile made. The orthodontist blinked at the stream, watched the twig float away, vanish under an overhang of willow branches. He wished all his troubles would slip away with it. “That evening at Phillipe’s, the person who fired the shot—missed.”

The tribal investigator thought about this. “Unless I completely misunderstood what I read in the newspaper, the bullet hit the woman in the head. She dropped dead on the spot.”

“Allow me to clarify. The assassin missed his
intended
target.”

Moon thought he knew, but felt compelled to ask. “Which was?”

“Myself, of course.”

The Ute watched a bald eagle circle above the canyon.
Why don’t I ever get one of those slinky, good-looking lady clients like those hard-drinking detectives in pulp fiction. The rich blonde that wants you to find her missing sister who ran off to Hollywood with a trombone player. All I ever get is a thankless assignment from the tribal chairman or some botheration from one of these peculiar persons that—

Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe wrung his hands in exasperation. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I know this?”

If it’ll make you feel better.
“How do you know you were the shooter’s target?”

“I sense you are humoring me.” A pout pursed his lips. “I don’t believe that I shall tell you.”

“Okay.”

Blinkoe stamped his foot. “You are a most exasperating man!”

“I didn’t mean to rile you.” The Ute patted Blinkoe’s rounded shoulder. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

The orthodontist seated himself on a rotten cottonwood log. “You must promise not to laugh.”

“I’ll do my level best.”

It was some time before the man spoke, but when he did it was with an intensity that surpassed his previous tantrum. “Moments before the shooting occurred, I felt a strange, tingling sensation. I looked up, toward the table where the woman was seated. There, very near her, was…” He put his face in his hands. “Oh—I don’t know if I can make myself tell you.”

Moon sat down beside him. “If it’d help, I could tie you to an anthill. Drive red-hot splinters under your toenails.”

The
matukach
glared at the merry Ute. “Mr. Moon, I am not devoid of a sense of humor. I laugh at the Sunday comics, particularly FoxTrot and Agnes. And if I happen to see an elderly lady trip over her cane and tumble down the porch steps, I positively go into hysterics. But this is a
very
serious matter.”

“You’re right.”

Blinkoe’s expression was doubtful. “You promise not to make sport of me?”

“Sure. Now tell me who you saw near the woman who got shot.”

“For the sake of conversation, we may refer to what I saw as…” He gulped. “As It.”

Moon arched a dark eyebrow. “
It?
”

Blinkoe avoided the Ute’s gaze. “That’s what I said.”

“Uh, I don’t know just how to say this—but what exactly is It?” Moon had no trouble looking puzzled. “Are we talking animal, mineral, or vegetable?”

The white man’s face blushed pink. “Neither.”

“I’m not sure I really want to know—but what does that leave?”

“It is nonmaterial.”

Aha.
“You mean like a ghost?”

“More like…a
presence.
”

The tribal investigator stared at his potential client.
Or maybe a hallucination.

Blinkoe waited for a response. “Well?”

“Hmmm,” the Ute said.

“What does that mean?”

“Means I’m thinking.”

“Thinking what?”

You don’t want to know.
“You ever seen this ‘It’ before?”

“Oh, certainly—during the course of my highly eventful life, whenever I have been in mortal danger I have often become aware of my…uh…
companion.
This has occurred seven times during the past ten years, five of which preceded the violent incident at Phillipe’s.”

Moon did some elementary arithmetic. “Five plus one equals six.” He said this with considerable assurance that he would not be contradicted.

Blinkoe cleared his throat. “The seventh sighting was
after
the shooting.”

The tribal investigator looked over the canyon. The white-headed eagle was no longer there. “When and where?”

“Yesterday, in Granite Creek. More precisely, at noon—at Harriet’s Rare Books.”

“Anybody try to do you in?”

Blinkoe shook his head. “But I am certain that it was a warning. Whoever intended to murder me at the restaurant may have been lurking nearby, waiting for a second opportunity. I have no doubt the scoundrel will make another attempt.”

“You tell Scott Parris about this…uh…this It business?”

“I did not.” Blinkoe hesitated. “Forgive me for saying this about your colleague, but he is a bone-headed bumpkin.”

Moon tried to look at least mildly offended, but could not pull it off.

“Which is to say—he is not the sort of person who would listen to any story that was more unusual than Jack and Jill Went up the Hill to Fetch a Pail of Liquid Refreshment. But I did inform him that I was the assassin’s intended victim.”

“And he didn’t buy that?”

“No. In fact, he came very near guffawing in my face.”

“But Scott sent you to see me.”
Thanks a lot, pal.

“He did.” The peculiar man scowled. “I’m sure he merely wanted to be rid of me.”

“Look,” the Ute said gently, “I don’t think I can help you. Nonmaterial stuff—that’s not quite in my line of expertise.”
Maybe he should talk to Aunt Daisy.

“I am not an utter fool,” Blinkoe snapped. “I do not expect you to go looking for…for my nonmaterial
companion.
What I want you to do is find out who’s trying to murder me. And put a stop to it.”

“Well, it does sound interesting.” Moon flipped a pebble into the stream. “Problem is, I’ve got a big ranch to look after. And what little time I have left over, the tribal chairman keeps me busy with this and that.”

“Then you’re saying you won’t help me?”

“Sure wish I could, but—”

“I cannot accept that answer.” Blinkoe jutted his chin in the manner of one who has been driven to a difficult decision. “I’m sorry. But you leave me no choice in the matter.”

Intrigued to find out what the man had in mind, Moon waited. He did not have to wait long.

Manfred Wilhelm Blinkoe put a hand inside his jacket.

Having met more than his fair share of crazies, the tribal investigator tensed.
If he pulls a gun—

Blinkoe produced a pack of Bicycle Playing Cards, which he offered to the Ute. “I understand that you are a gambling man.”

Moon inspected the box. The cellophane seal was unbroken. “Where’d you hear that?”

The white man allowed himself a small smirk. “I have my ways of finding out things.”

“What’ve you got in mind?”

Blinkoe rubbed his palms together. “Name your poison.”

“Straight poker will be the death of me.”

“Done.”

“What’re the stakes?”

“My hard cash against your hard work.”

“You’ll have to be a bit more quantitative.” Moon watched the orthodontist extract a wallet from his hip pocket. A
fat
wallet.

Blinkoe removed a thick sheaf of hundred-dollar bills, began to peel them off one by one. He offered the stack for the Ute’s inspection.

Moon counted the crisp new hundreds. “There’s a thousand bucks here.”

“We’ll play one hand. You win, you take the greenbacks. I win, you provide me with three days of your investigative services at no cost.”

This sounded too easy. The Ute gave him a narrow-eyed look. “I shuffle, you cut, I deal.”