stopped for Scott Parris to open the gate, the special agent abandoned his sedan and slid into the front seat beside the Ute. Parris closed the barbed-wire contraption after Moon drove the Blazer through the gate, then climbed into the rear seat of the four-wheeler. The Ute nosed the squad car slowly up the canyon in low gear, examining the landscape to the right of the dirt lane.
Hoover was leaning forward with both hands on the dash board. "How far is it to this Ouray fellow's house?"
"Big Ouray had no use for houses," Moon replied. "Al-ways lived out of doors, night or day, rain or shine."
"Remarkable," Hoover said, "a real eccentric. Was he a loner?" He loved this job.
"Wasn't acquainted with him myself," Moon said, "but those who knew him said he was kind of hostile. Liked bein' with cows more than with people."
Parris dropped his face into his hands. Moon was determined to do this thing.
"The sexual mutilation," Hoover said with a professorial air, "is a classic giveaway. Ten to one it's his wife."
"He didn't have himself a wife," Moon said with an air of sadness. The Ute adjusted the rearview mirror so he could watch Parris's face.
"If the victim wasn't married, look for a jealous girlfriend. Or her husband. Of course," Hoover added thoughtfully, "maybe he wasn't interested in girls. You know anything about his sexual preferences?"
"From what I hear," Moon said, "Big Ouray's… what I guess you'd call… uh… straight."
Parris groaned as the Ute winked in the mirror. In more than one way, the acting chief of police was just along for the ride.
As they rounded a heavy stand of scrub oak, Moon stomped the brake pedal. A green Dodge van was blocking the road.
The Ute cut the ignition and muttered under his breath. "Doc Schaid's truck. Didn't expect him to get here so soon; Gorman must have really leaned on him."
Hoover leaned forward expectantly. "The medical examiner?"
"What passes for one," Moon said.
A heavily built man appeared through the sage, followed by a small woman dressed in a man's shirt, faded jeans, and high leather boots. The veterinarian, who carried a small tripod-mounted camera in one hand, was returning to his truck. Moon noticed that he walked somewhat unsteadily. His companion, an attractive brunette with a rich olive complexion, was lugging his black bag of instruments and med-ications. Schaid was a hulking man whose stooped posture belied his six-foot-four height; the picture of him carrying only the camera while the tiny woman strained at the heavy medical bag was ludicrous.
Moon opened his door. "You fellows sit tight for a minute. Doc Schaid's more likely to talk if it's just me and him."
"I guess that's okay for now," Hoover agreed doubtfully, "but I'll need to interrogate him as soon as-—"
"Hey, Harry," Moon yelled, "what's cookin'?"
The veterinarian's response was a sullen grunt.
Moon was irrepressible. "How did you talk Mrs. Night-bird into doin' duty as your packhorse?"
Emily Nightbird smiled sweetly. "I needed something to keep me busy, Charlie. And," she added tenderly, "I love to be around the animals."
Schaid scowled, leaned the tripod against a dwarf oak, and displayed a bandaged right hand. "Got injured. Shorthanded, gotta make do." Moon sniffed the faint odor of whiskey. So the rumors were true; the vet was hitting the bottle. According to the stories that floated around Angel's Diner, Schaid's marriage had gone sour. The local gossips also whispered that the vet's wife had found herself a rich boyfriend. Barbara Schaid hadn't been heard from since her husband reported that she left to visit her ailing sister in Virginia. The veterinarian had evidently realized that his wife, who served as his surgical assistant, wouldn't be returning soon. He had hired Herb Ecker to assist him in the surgery. The Belgian exchange student had stayed with the veterinarian for barely a month, then left to sell insurance for Arlo Nightbird. Now Arlo's wife was working with Schaid.
Hoover was leaning forward with both hands on the dash board. "How far is it to this Ouray fellow's house?"
"Big Ouray had no use for houses," Moon replied. "Al-ways lived out of doors, night or day, rain or shine."
"Remarkable," Hoover said, "a real eccentric. Was he a loner?" He loved this job.
"Wasn't acquainted with him myself," Moon said, "but those who knew him said he was kind of hostile. Liked bein' with cows more than with people."
Parris dropped his face into his hands. Moon was determined to do this thing.
"The sexual mutilation," Hoover said with a professorial air, "is a classic giveaway. Ten to one it's his wife."
"He didn't have himself a wife," Moon said with an air of sadness. The Ute adjusted the rearview mirror so he could watch Parris's face.
"If the victim wasn't married, look for a jealous girlfriend. Or her husband. Of course," Hoover added thoughtfully, "maybe he wasn't interested in girls. You know anything about his sexual preferences?"
"From what I hear," Moon said, "Big Ouray's… what I guess you'd call… uh… straight."
Parris groaned as the Ute winked in the mirror. In more than one way, the acting chief of police was just along for the ride.
As they rounded a heavy stand of scrub oak, Moon stomped the brake pedal. A green Dodge van was blocking the road.
The Ute cut the ignition and muttered under his breath. "Doc Schaid's truck. Didn't expect him to get here so soon; Gorman must have really leaned on him."
Hoover leaned forward expectantly. "The medical examiner?"
"What passes for one," Moon said.
A heavily built man appeared through the sage, followed by a small woman dressed in a man's shirt, faded jeans, and high leather boots. The veterinarian, who carried a small tripod-mounted camera in one hand, was returning to his truck. Moon noticed that he walked somewhat unsteadily. His companion, an attractive brunette with a rich olive complexion, was lugging his black bag of instruments and med-ications. Schaid was a hulking man whose stooped posture belied his six-foot-four height; the picture of him carrying only the camera while the tiny woman strained at the heavy medical bag was ludicrous.
Moon opened his door. "You fellows sit tight for a minute. Doc Schaid's more likely to talk if it's just me and him."
"I guess that's okay for now," Hoover agreed doubtfully, "but I'll need to interrogate him as soon as-—"
"Hey, Harry," Moon yelled, "what's cookin'?"
The veterinarian's response was a sullen grunt.
Moon was irrepressible. "How did you talk Mrs. Night-bird into doin' duty as your packhorse?"
Emily Nightbird smiled sweetly. "I needed something to keep me busy, Charlie. And," she added tenderly, "I love to be around the animals."
Schaid scowled, leaned the tripod against a dwarf oak, and displayed a bandaged right hand. "Got injured. Shorthanded, gotta make do." Moon sniffed the faint odor of whiskey. So the rumors were true; the vet was hitting the bottle. According to the stories that floated around Angel's Diner, Schaid's marriage had gone sour. The local gossips also whispered that the vet's wife had found herself a rich boyfriend. Barbara Schaid hadn't been heard from since her husband reported that she left to visit her ailing sister in Virginia. The veterinarian had evidently realized that his wife, who served as his surgical assistant, wouldn't be returning soon. He had hired Herb Ecker to assist him in the surgery. The Belgian exchange student had stayed with the veterinarian for barely a month, then left to sell insurance for Arlo Nightbird. Now Arlo's wife was working with Schaid.
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