J. Jance - Minor in possession

"Where is it?" he asked over his shoulder as we trudged along.

"I never turned on the lights so I didn't actually see it," I admitted, "but it's somewhere right near the door. At least that's what it sounded like when I left."

"If the snake's by the door, how'd you get out without getting bit?"

"I climbed out the bathroom window."

He stopped in the glow of a yard light and looked up at me, consternation written on his face. "Out the window, no shit? Musta been a tight fit."

"I broke out the glass."

"I see," he said, and continued on.

Feeling like a cowardly jackass, I stayed outside, hovering nervously on the rim of the porch while Shorty cracked open the door, switched on the light, and peered inside.

"See him?" I asked.

"Nope. Not yet. Probably slipped under a bed or into the closet, looking for someplace to hide, I reckon. You stay outside," Shorty added. "I've got boots on. You don't."

Carefully he slipped inside the cabin, easing the door shut behind him. I stood outside, gazing forlornly in at the window while he searched the cabin for the snake. For several anxious minutes I was afraid he wouldn't find the snake at all, that people hearing the story would assume I had made the whole thing up in a fit of alcohol-withdrawal-induced paranoia.

But then, much to my relief, I saw Shorty struggling with the stick inside the closet. A few minutes later he returned to the door and opened it. Behind Shorty, I saw the empty snake stick leaning against the wall beside the open closet door. In one triumphant hand Shorty held a writhing burlap bag.

I recoiled from the bag in alarm. "Don't worry," Shorty said reassuringly. "It can't hurt you now. Come on in and get some clothes on." Holding the bag well away from his body, he tied the neck of it in a solid knot, shaking it once to be sure it would hold.

Gingerly I stepped in over the threshold, warily watching the bag, but also looking around the room for any further sign of danger. "What if there's another one?" I asked. "Is that possible?"

"I suppose," Shorty replied. "Possible, but not likely, especially since this one here's a pet."

"A pet?" I couldn't believe my ears. "Are you kidding? I thought you said it came from the riverbank."

"Not this one. It's somebody's pet snake all right, one that got loose somehow. And not very long ago, either, from the looks of it."

"How the hell do you know that? What's he doing, wearing a dog tag?"

I had given up all hope of taking of shower. Instead, I went to the closet to get some clothes, pulling everything to one side and examining every corner of the closet before I took down my shirt and trousers. In the process I noticed that all of Joey Rothman's belongings had been removed, not only from the closet but from the rest of the cabin as well. It was as though someone had come through the place and erased every trace of his occupancy.

Shorty set the wriggling bag down near the door and walked into the bathroom, where he examined the broken window. "How come you didn't take the glass out?" he asked.

"Pardon me?"

"The glass, come you broke it? Those panes just sit in the frame, you know. They lift right out."

"You could have fooled me," I told him with a nervous laugh. "I must not have been thinking too straight. That snake scared the living shit right out of me."

Shorty retrieved his stick from beside the closet and set it near the bag while the snake rattled ominoulsy. Even muffled by the burlap bag, the sound was enough to make my skin crawl. But Shorty didn't seem remotely disturbed. If any thing, he seemed to be struggling to suppress a grin.

"What the hell's so damned funny?" I demanded.

"Him too," Shorty answered, allowing himself a discreet smile.

"What do you mean?"

"Look over there," he said, pointing. "See that mess there under the corner of the bed?"

I looked where he pointed and was rewarded with the sight of a small, stomach-turning mass of white fur and tiny tails.

"What the hell is that?"

"Snake's dinner-dead white mice," Shorty answered. "He scared you, but you musta scared him pretty good too. He barfed his guts out. You ever see any white mice in the wild, by the way?"

"You're saying I scared him?"

The idea of the snake being frightened of me was so laughable that I felt an almost hysterical chuckle welling in my throat. But Shorty Rojas wasn't laughing.

"You bet. Coiling up and striking is hard work for snakes. Bothers 'em. Upsets their digestive tracts, especially if they've just been fed."

I wondered suddenly if Shorty was having a bit of old-fashioned cowboy fun with a tenderfoot city-slicker from Seattle, but there was no hint of amusement about him as he spoke. The smile no longer flickered around the corners of his mouth. The twinkle was gone from his eyes. He seemed dead serious.

"How do you happen to know so much about snakes?" I asked.

"My cousin's kid, Jaime. He went to the university and works in Tucson now at a place called the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. He claims snakes are more scared of people than we are of them. He says that after a captive snake gets fed, it needs to be left alone and quiet until it has a chance to digest the meal, twenty-four hours or so anyway."

Shorty was quiet. The snake rattled one more time as if to remind us that it was still present. Hurriedly, I pulled on a pair of socks and stuffed my feet into my other pair of shoes. I glanced in his direction and found Shorty staring at the lumpy burlap bag, regarding it with a puzzled expression on his face.

"Even without the mice, I would have known," he said.

"What do you mean?" I was back at the closet pulling out a sports jacket. I was cold, much colder than the temperature in the room warranted.

"It's the wrong kind of snake," he answered. "We have diamondbacks around here, and some Mohave rattlers. Even a few speckled, but this here's charcoal gray with no markings whatsoever. I'd say it's an Arizona black from up around the Mogollon Rim. I can't remember seeing one of them around here before, not ever."

"If it's somebody's goddamned pet snake, what the hell was it doing in my cabin?"

For the first time the full implication of the snake being a "pet snake" hit me. If somebody had planted it in my room, then that somebody had tried to kill me with it as sure as I was standing there. Assault with a deadly weapon. A living deadly weapon.

I turned on my heel and stalked out the door, not even thinking now about the snake in the burlap bag as I walked by it. Someone had just tried to murder me. I wanted to know who the hell that person was.

"Where are you going?" Shorty asked, following me out onto the small porch.

"To call the sheriff. If somebody's trying to knock me off, I want a detective down here on the double, taking prints and finding out what the hell is going on."

"There's already been so much trouble today, with the boy and the flood-" Shorty began, but I cut him off.

"The flood's one thing, but believe me, Joey Rothman's murder and this snake are connected. Whoever killed Joey just tried to get me as well. I'm calling the sheriff."

With that, I left Shorty there on the porch and bounded up the trail. At the door to the dining room I almost collided with people coming out. Not bothering to apologize, I stormed past them. Halfway down the administrative wing's hall I ran full tilt into Lucy Washington, who was coming from the opposite direction.

"What's got into you now?" she demanded, stopping in her tracks and barring my way with both hands on her hips. Her full lips ironed themselves into a cold, thin line. She was still packing a grudge from our previous encounter.

"To see Mrs. Crenshaw," I answered.

"Like hell you are. She's not here and neither is the mister. What do you want?"