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  Hoppy saw the projectile coming and flung himself to the wet earth of the forest floor. He pulled the shotgun close to his body and covered his head with his other arm. When he thought it was safe to look up again, he discovered that his face was fifteen inches from the onyx eyes of a pissed-off snake.

  CHAPTER 47

  Purdy’s tie was tucked into his trousers and his shield wallet hung open on his overtaxed belt. He had the end of the earpiece of a pair of cheap reading glasses stuck between his teeth while he was leaning over and staring at the red Vespa as though he were deciding how best to cook it.

  Kelda had never actually met Sam Purdy, but she intuitively picked him out of the cluster of people at the scene. She flashed her FBI identification to a patrol officer so that he would let her get close enough to Purdy to say, “Detective Purdy? I’m Special Agent Kelda James.”

  He turned his head to look at her. At seeing how pretty she was in person, he mumbled, “Figures.”

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  He pulled the glasses from between his teeth. “Nothing. Nice to meet you. This look like the Vespa?”

  “It does.”

  He turned his attention back to the red scooter. “Do you know these things don’t even need real license plates? When they have these whiny little 50cc engines they’re not even considered motorcycles. The state just gives them that little sticker right there.” He pointed at the rear fender. “See it? That thing. A square inch, maybe. If you didn’t know to look for it, you’d miss it for sure.”

  “Yes,” she said. She was wondering what his act was all about and was not even considering the possibility that it wasn’t an act. She was determined to remain his audience and not become his foil.

  Purdy went on. “So, I was wondering, was your friend using the services of the . . . you know, county?” He tilted his head in the direction of the red brick building that housed the Boulder County Mental Health Center.

  The sky to the west was dark gray and lightning was jumping off the high peaks between Boulder and the Divide. From Boulder and its vantage so close to the mountains, approaching thunderstorms sometimes appeared suddenly as the huge wave of an approaching airborne tsunami. This was one of those times. The blustery air out in front of the storm smelled of rain.

  “Was Tom Clone a client of the Mental Health Center? Not that I know of.”

  “So why was he here?”

  She made a perplexed face for his benefit but her concentration was focused on the puzzle of how Ira had managed to get Tom off the Vespa and into his Pathfinder. She guessed that Ira had used her as bait.

  To Purdy, she said, “Clone was looking for work. Maybe he was here trying to get some kind of job. Have you talked to the people inside the building? He may have filled out an application.”

  Purdy smiled just enough to let her know that he’d recognized her joust. He tapped his watch. “It’s a little late in the day, unfortunately. The Human Resources people are gone for the day. The staff people that are still in there after hours are the, um, clinical types.” He tucked his lower lip so that it disappeared below his mustache. “You ever try to get help with an investigation from a shrink, Agent James? It’s not pretty. It’s just not pretty.”

  She noticed that he was managing to maintain the smile in his eyes.

  “I take it that nobody saw Tom drive it here? And that nobody recognizes the Vespa as his?”

  “That’s right. Nobody but you.”

  A profound clap of thunder echoed off the mountains. Purdy didn’t react to it, but he stepped around to the front end of the scooter and spread an open palm over the Vespa as though he were a magician who was about to levitate it one-handed. “Want to make a guess where this was seen last? I mean before today?”

  She almost cursed aloud at his question and her best guess about the answer, but managed to say, “No. Why don’t you just tell me where it was?” She knew he was going to tell her that it had been outside Dr. Gregory’s office.

  He did. “It was on Walnut Street. Just west of Ninth. Do you know the neighborhood? It’s mixed residential and offices. Nice, but a little too close to Canyon Boulevard for my taste.”

  Yes, Gregory’s office. What was she supposed to say next? Her eyes jumped to a bolt of lightning that seemed to elevate from the hogbacks on the western edge of town. “I think it’s finally going to rain,” she said.

  Purdy looked toward the mountains. His eyes registered surprise, as though he hadn’t noticed the approaching thunderstorm before. He nodded and said, “Yep, it’s that time of year. Monsoon season. So why do you think this Vespa was on Walnut Street?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Just thought you might.”

  “When was it seen there?” she asked. She didn’t really think Purdy would answer her.

  He did. “Day before yesterday.”

  “Who was driving it on Walnut Street?”

  “Your friend.”

  Ah,she thought,here it comes. “Maybe he had business over there.”

  “Business? Like an appointment? That kind of business?”

  “Sure. Like an appointment.”

  “Yeah, that’s it. Maybe he was buying life insurance. Or setting up a blind trust with a tax attorney or something.”

  “Cut the crap, please, Detective. I don’t know what Tom was doing over there. I don’t keep his Day-Timer. I barely know him.”

  “Bullshit. You know him better than you’re letting on. And you know exactly what he was doing there. But that’s okay. Because I do, too—I know what he was doing there. I know all about his appointment on Walnut Street. I just wanted to see how we were doing on the honesty scale, here. You and me. Local cop and federal agent.Mano a womano. ”

  She was speechless.

  Rain started pelting the ground. A patrol officer was standing ready to cover the Vespa with a tarp.

  Purdy indicated the officer should go ahead and drape the scooter, then he wrinkled his nose and looked at Kelda. “Have you seen Clone or talked to Clone since he was last seen on this scooter the day before yesterday?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “In case you’re wondering—on that honesty scale I was talking about, we’re not doing too well,” he said, while he rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “This is giving me a headache. You got any Tylenol or anything? I noticed you were limping.”

  To herself, she said, “Shit.”

  She hoped that her lips hadn’t moved.

  CHAPTER 48

  Hoppy thought,So that’s what that sound is.

  The snake was coiled up on a rock for warmth, but its rattle had begun clattering and the snake had raised its head in ominous alert. To Hoppy the viper’s eyes looked like charred grains of rice.

  He was wondering if there were rules that prescribed what he was supposed to do in his current predicament.

  Do I move or do I not move?

  If I move, do I go fast or do I go slow?

  Hoppy slid his finger onto the trigger of the shotgun. The plan he was formulating in his head was simple: Get to his feet as fast as he could and shoot the damn snake to smithereens with buckshot. He told himself he’d do it on the count of three. His eyes frozen on the snake, he silently counted, “One . . . two . . .”

  The snake moved first. It was a quick little jerk of its head. Off to the right, maybe an inch. That was it.

  Hoppy never got to “three.” He didn’t pop to his feet. Once his eyes registered the movement of the snake his finger squeezed the trigger on the shotgun.

  The flash from the barrel was as bright as lightning and the roar many times louder than any thunder he’d ever heard. He was so startled by the noise and the light and what the recoil had done to his elbow and by the intense stinging he felt on his scalp that he momentarily forgot all about the snake.

  Then, a second or two later, he remembered, and he scrambled backward and leaped to his feet. He managed to get the barrel of the gun aimed directly at the rock whe
re the snake was coiled.

  About eight inches of snake remained on the rock. The beady black eyes were gone but the rattle end was intact. Rain was pelting the bare stone.

  Hoppy thought the rattle was silent but he couldn’t be sure because he really couldn’t hear a thing. His ears hadn’t recovered from the decibel concussion of the shotgun blast. The sharp pain on top of his head had him truly concerned that the snake might have sunk his fangs into his flesh before the buckshot turned the reptile into ground chuck.

  He called out, “Fred! Fred!” having temporarily forgotten about the man in the motorcycle helmet with the little balloons full of God-knows-what, not to mention that guy inside the fence with the speech impediment.

  The rain, so intense for a few minutes, had eased to something that only a generous meteorologist would call a drizzle. A thin ribbon of dark blue and orange sky lit the tops of the Divide.

  The only person that Fred Prehost could spot was his buddy, Hoppy, who was standing in a small clearing in the woods pointing his shotgun at a rock. Prehost couldn’t see the guy in the motorcycle helmet, and he couldn’t see the guy who was in the enclosure.

  He still couldn’t figure out who the hell Hoppy had decided needed shooting.

  Prehost hissed, “Hoppy, get down! Hoppy! Get down!” But Hoppy wasn’t responding.

  Prehost crawled closer. From twenty feet away, he said, “Down! Get down! Jesus.”

  Nothing.

  Prehost threw a small rock at his friend’s feet. As the stone hit his boot, Hoppy spun with the shotgun ready. Prehost waved his hands and said, “It’s me. It’s me.” But he was thinking,Shit, he’s going to shoot me.

  Finally, Hoppy recognized his friend and lowered the barrel of the gun. Fred made a dramatic motion with both hands, urging him to get down; Hoppy lowered himself to a crouch.

  In a voice that was at least a couple of measures too loud, he declared, “I shot a snake.”

  “You what?”

  Hoppy saw Fred’s lips move but didn’t hear him. He shook his head and said, “It was a rattlesnake.”

  “Up here? No way, buddy.”

  Hoppy pointed at his ear with his free hand and shook his head. He said, “I can’t hear you. My ears.”

  From the direction of the enclosure, Prehost heard, “ ’olice? Hel’! ’olice? Hel’! Hel’!”

  Prehost held a hand up to Hoppy.

  “Hel’! Hel’!”

  Hoppy said, “I heard that.”

  Fred said, “Let’s go. Careful. We don’t know where the other guy is.”

  Hoppy said, “Okay.” The two men made their way the last few yards through the woods.

  Prehost said, “Cover me.” When his friend didn’t respond, he added, “You hear that?”

  Hoppy nodded and raised his shotgun again. “I got you.”

  Prehost checked the woods in all directions before he approached the enclosure. He barely recognized the man inside the fence. “Clone? Is that you?”

  “Yes! Yes!”

  “Who did this? Who put you in here?”

  “A guy. ’ear! ’ear! It’s all a’out ’ear and so’e girl.”

  Prehost had no idea what Clone was talking about. He stepped closer to the pen. “What? There’s no gate? Can you climb out? Do you think you can climb the fence?”

  Tom yelped, “Don’t touch the ’ence! Don’t touch the ’ence! It’s electric. You’ll get a shock!”

  “Oh,” Prehost replied and withdrew his hand. He walked to the corner of the enclosure and examined the connection where the cable from the mineshaft was wired to the steel of the fence. He turned back to Hoppy. “We okay, here? You watching the woods?”

  Hoppy gave him the thumbs-up. Prehost grabbed the orange cable with his left hand and with a single hard pull yanked it free of the fence. He raised the loose cable in the air and shook it. “It’s not going to shock you anymore, Clone. Can you climb out now?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then do it. Wait a second. First, where did he go? The helmet guy?”

  Clone pointed back in the direction of the cabin. “That way. He ran down that way.”

  “You know who he is?”

  He said, “No. No. I don’t. I think I saw hi’ yesterday in ’oulder, ’ut I don’t re’e’er anything until I woke u’ u’ here.”

  “Why is he doing this?”

  Tom said, “ ’ear. It’s all a’out ’ear. And so’e girl.”

  Prehost said, “Ears?”

  Tom Clone groaned.

  Hoppy stepped forward. “Fred, we should leave Clone here while we find the guy. He’ll get in the way if he comes with us. He’s safe inside there. We don’t want to lose him.”

  Prehost said, “You’re right.” He turned to Tom. “Change of plans. I want you to stay here for a few minutes while we round that other guy up. I want to talk to him and find out what he knows about who killed the girl. We’ll be back for you real soon.”

  Tom screamed, “No! No!”

  Prehost lowered the orange power cable and touched the frayed end to the wiring that was still attached to the fence post. Fiery sparks lit the dusk as the electrical connection bridged the wires. “Yes, yes, I’m afraid,” Prehost said. “I wouldn’t touch that fence if I were you.”

  “No!”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be back. You sit tight.” Prehost turned to Hoppy. “Are you getting your hearing back?”

  “Little by little, Fred.”

  “What are those marks on your head?”

  Hoppy’s dirty fingertips grazed the skin near his hairline. “I’m thinking maybe he got me. The snake. How long will the poison take, Fred? Do you know how long it takes?”

  “A rattlesnake, huh? You say you shot a rattlesnake?”

  “I did. It’s back there. I’ll show you the rattles.”

  “No way, Hoppy. Not up here. I think you’re seeing things. Those are blast burns on your head from the shotgun. It looks like you almost blew your own damn head off trying to kill that imaginary rattlesnake.”

  Fifty feet away Tom Clone listened to the whole exchange with his mouth hanging open in exasperation. Finally, his voice swollen with defeat, he interjected, “’i’er . . . It was a ’i’er.”

  “Huh? Hyper?”

  “ ’i’er! ’lease don’t ’orget a’out ’e. ’lease.”

  Prehost stopped and faced the man in the enclosure. “Forget about you, Tom? All I can say is watch what you wish for. Didn’t your momma ever teach you that? Watch what you wish for.”

  CHAPTER 49

  Lauren had the afternoon off from work at the district attorney’s office. After the conclusion of Grace’s afternoon nap, my two girls were planning on coming downtown to run some errands before we all met for dinner. The gray light streaming in my office windows and the sounds of distant crackling thunder indicated that a thunderhead seemed to be descending on Boulder from the mountains, so the plans were subject to change. I stepped into the backyard of the building through the French door on the south side of my office to get a closer look at the approaching storm. Although the eastern skies were cobalt, the western view was nothing but gray waves undulating above the inert mass of the mountains.

  Something was blowing in off the Divide and it was blowing in fast.

  I stepped back inside and phoned Lauren on her cell.

  “Hi, sweetie,” I said after she answered. “How are my girls?”

  “We’re good. It looks like we’re finally going to get some rain. Did you see this storm?”

  “I sure did. Where are you two?”

  “Nordstrom. I’m waiting to pay for some things for Grace. Are you done already?”

  Nordstrom meant Flatiron Crossing, a shopping mecca east of Boulder. The new mall made me crazy. When I got within a mile of it, my blood pressure went crazy, my pulse raced, and whatever patience I possessed evaporated. The allure of Nordstrom’s baby department aside, shopping excursions to suburban malls were Lauren’s exclusive domain, one t
hat I always thought she embraced with a little too much enthusiasm.

  I said, “Yeah, I am. My last patient canceled. You want to change plans and just have dinner at home? That way you and Grace don’t have to drive all the way back into town in the weather.”

  “Will you cook?”

  “Cook? I’ll make sure there’s food on the table. I’m thinking takeout.”

  “Can you kill fifteen or twenty minutes?” she asked. “Let’s see how the storm develops. I think I’d still like to go out to dinner. So would Grace.”

  “You have enough energy?” My question was a small curtsy to Lauren’s multiple sclerosis. An afternoon of shopping was often more than enough to do her in for the rest of the day.

  “So far, so good.”

  “Then, sure, I can stay busy here for a little while. Why don’t you call me back when you decide what you want to do?”

  “Grace says she loves you.”

  “Sure she does. Tell her I love her and her mother, too.”

  I busied myself with patient charts, making some fresh case notations in terms that were as obscure as I could manage, caught up on some filing that dated back months, and I waited for the phone to ring.

  Diane poked her head in the doorway to say good night. I told her that I’d lock up the building.

  After a half hour passed and the return call didn’t come, I moved to the window. The storm was fierce overhead but clearing skies to the west told me that this wasn’t the advance guard of the summer monsoons. It was a routine Rocky Mountain afternoon thunderstorm cell that would pass into the plains within minutes. Tomorrow the relentless summer heat would be back.

  My pager vibrated on my hip. I pulled it from its holster and saw a number I didn’t recognize.

  I punched in the number I used to retrieve my voicemail. The most recent message played first.

  A frantic voice spoke. “Doctor Gregory? This is To’ Clone? Can you hel’ ’e? ’lease? I was kidna’ed and ’ut inside a ’ence and so’eone is trying to kill ’e. ’ear lessons! ’ear lessons! Call ’e ’ack right away. Hurry, ’lease. I need hel’!” He left the same number that was on the screen of my pager.