Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  Charlie Moon stood in front of the massive granite fireplace that dominated the north side of the parlor. Flames crackled in the stack of split pine. The rancher warmed his hands.

  Sweetwater cleared his throat. “Seems like a long time since we buried Billy Smoke.”

  Moon, half mesmerized by the flames, nodded. “How’s the senator getting along?”

  The chairman moved the mug in a counterclockwise motion. A dark whirlpool formed in the black liquid. “Patch bought himself a fancy motorized wheelchair.”

  “Will he ever walk again?”

  “Don’t look like it. Some people think he’ll resign from the senate. But Patch knows this attack will get him lots of sympathy—and plenty of extra votes come next election. And the next election is all he cares about. You mark my words, Charlie—he’ll be back in Washington before the first snow. Tootin’ around on his electric scooter. Making big things happen.” Sweetwater smiled at the picture in his mind.

  The rancher seated himself on a leather couch, pointed his knees at the fireplace. “You been keeping yourself out of trouble?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Moon allowed himself a smile. “Just wondered if you’d managed to stay out of the pokey.”

  The tribal chairman snorted. “I don’t know what’s wrong with those cops in Granite Creek. Throwing me in the jailhouse when I was an innocent bystander reporting a crime.”

  Moon nodded. “It is a mystery. All you did was run into a restaurant at midnight, wave a loaded pistol at the cashier.” He grinned at the chairman. “And with two bodies lying outside in the parking lot.”

  “All I wanted was for that dopey cashier to call the police, but I was all outta wind. And I forgot to talk American. Them dumb coppers locked me up like I was some kinda criminal. And,” he added in an accusative tone, “one of ’em is your buddy.”

  “If the chief of police wasn’t my buddy, they might’ve kept you in that cell for a week. Scott Parris called me to find out if you had a history of criminal behavior.” Or lunacy.

  “Speaking of your lawman friend, has he got anything new on who killed Billy Smoke?”

  Moon intertwined his fingers over a silver belt buckle. “Not the last I heard. He figures it was some lowlife transient looking for a quick buck.”

  Firelight twinkled in the elder’s dark eyes. “Is that what you think?”

  The tribal investigator nodded.

  “Think they’ll ever catch him?”

  “Habitual criminals like that eventually end up in prison. Or dead from an overdose of heroin or lead. But it’s a hundred-to-one shot against us ever knowing his name.”

  The chairman snorted again. “That makes it easy for your chief of police buddy—he’s got nobody to look for.” He was silent for a moment. “But maybe the killer was somebody that knew Billy. Somebody that wanted him dead.”

  The randomness of senseless evil was always hard to accept. “The evidence is pretty clear—it was a robbery gone wrong.” Moon stretched his long legs toward the fireplace. “Wallets were stolen from both of the victims.”

  The chairman shook his head stubbornly. “Billy Smoke’s mother don’t believe that. She thinks whoever killed her boy had a grudge against him.”

  “Who’d have a grudge against Billy Smoke?”

  Sweetwater ignored this question. “And most of the tribe agrees with her.” He gave his host a sly, sideways glance. “That’s why I want you to look into the matter.”

  Well, I saw that one coming. “Granite Creek PD has already looked into it. And because a U.S. senator was assaulted, the FBI has investigated the incident.”

  Oscar Sweetwater dismissed this with a wave of his hand.

  Moon sat for a long time, staring at the flames. “It’s been months since Billy was killed. If the right suspect isn’t arrested within twenty-four hours of the crime, he usually gets away clean. If he’s not picked up within a week, the chances of ever catching him are so close to zero that—”

  “Don’t quote me no statistics,” the chairman snapped. “I know it won’t be easy. But look into the matter, Charlie. If you can’t find nothing, then you can’t. But we got to at least make a show of trying to find out who killed one of the People.”

  Make a show. Of course. It’s always about tribal politics. “Oscar, after all this time, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “You could talk to the senator. He’s your next-door neighbor.”

  Next door thirty-some miles away. “The FBI must’ve talked him to death already.”

  Sweetwater grinned. “Patch Davidson don’t much like the federal cops. All he gave them was a written statement through his lawyer.”

  Moon turned to the old man. “He refused to be questioned by the FBI?”

  The chairman nodded. “Damn right. Ol’ Patch, he don’t mess with folks he don’t like.”

  “What’s he got against the Bureau?”

  A shrug under the old man’s plaid shirt. “Patch just don’t like who he don’t like. That’s all.”

  “So what makes you think he’d talk to me?”

  “You, he likes.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I just know.” He winked at the former tribal policeman. “Might have something to do with that time years ago.”

  “What time was that?”

  As if you don’t remember. “You can ask him.”

  “Oscar, it’d be different if I could see how me messing around in this business could help find Billy’s killer. But it won’t. Besides, I got lots of cow-related work to do.”

  “From what I hear, you’re more or less a nuisance around here.”

  “That’s an advantage of being the owner.” Moon grinned at the cantankerous old man. “I can be a nuisance whenever I want to.”

  “If you’d get away more, this ranch might start showing a profit.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been talking to Pete Bushman again.”

  “He’s a capable foreman. You ought to leave the running of the Columbine to him.”

  “Tell you what, Oscar.” Moon pointed. “I’m going to pick up that telephone. Call the BoxCar Ranch. Tell whoever answers that I’d like to drop by for a chat with the senator. If I get an invite, I’ll go and ask him about the assault. If I don’t, that’s the end of it. Agreed?”

  The tribal chairman put on an offended expression. “Looks to me like you’re trying to weasel out of doing some useful work for the tribe. And it’s not like we don’t pay you enough.”

  “Hey, you claim the senator likes me. So is it a deal or not?”

  The old man sighed. “Well, if that’s all you’ll do—what can I say?”

  Moon thumbed through the telephone directory.

  Sweetwater gave him the number for the BoxCar spread.

  Old man has a good memory. Moon dialed.

  A female voice answered. “BoxCar Ranch. Miss James speaking.”

  “Uh—hello, this is Charlie Moon. I own the ranch next door, and I just wanted to—”

  She interrupted. “Why, hello, Mr. Moon. Thank you for calling. The senator is anxious to speak with you.”

  “He is?”

  “Of course. Your tribal chairman advised us to expect your call. Please hold for just a moment.” There was a click in his ear.

  Moon put his hand over the mouthpiece. “Oscar, you have flimflammed me again.”

  The old man’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “Sure I do. But I like to hear you say it.”

  “You are a devious old man. Full of deceit and treachery.”

  The Ute politician nodded his agreement with this assessment and smiled. “Thank you kindly.”

  The rancher heard the senator’s gruff voice in his ear. “Charlie Moon—that really you?”

  “Yes, sir. Oscar Sweetwater is here. He asked me to talk to you about—”

  “Right. Can you drop
by the BoxCar on Thursday morning?”

  “Well, I suppose I—”

  “That’s great. Make it around ten.”

  Moon accepted the invitation. When the telephone conversation was terminated by the powerful politician, Charlie hung up the phone and turned to the tribal chairman.

  Sweetwater avoided the tall man’s stare.

  “Oscar.”

  The chairman concentrated on the fireplace. Reflected flames danced in his merry eyes. “Did I hear somebody call my name?”

  “Anything else you might want to tell me about the senator?”

  The old man frowned, deepening furrows in an already wrinkled brow. “I don’t think so. Except…maybe one thing.”

  Moon waited for the boot to drop.

  “Patch—he might have something else for you to look into.”

  “What might that be?”

  Oscar Sweetwater shrugged bony shoulders. “He didn’t spell it out. But I think it has to do with security on his ranch.” He turned, smiled playfully at Moon. “I expect somebody’s been stealing old Patch’s beef cows.”

  “Last thing I heard,” Moon said, “the BoxCar don’t have any cattle.”

  The chairman nodded thoughtfully. “Them damn rustlers must’ve got away with all of ’em. No wonder the senator is so upset.”

  MINUTES AFTER the tribal chairman had departed, Pete Bushman showed up at the front door. The Columbine foreman was shaking his head, growling.

  Moon invited his employee into the parlor. “What’s on your mind, Pete?”

  “It’s that damn cougar.” Bushman shook his shaggy head. “This mornin’, he made a run at Alf Marquez.”

  The Ute felt a sour coldness in the pit of his stomach. “Is Alf hurt?”

  “Not this time. But that big scat spooked the Mexican’s mount, and Alf got throwed.” Pete pulled at his beard. “Two of the men was with him, one took a shot at the cat an’ scared it off. If he’d been workin’ by hisself, Alf’d a been cat food for sure.”

  “Where did this happen?”

  “Right where you’d expect it—over at the foot of the Notch.”

  Moon went to a window, looked westward toward the half-mile-wide, saddle-shaped crevasse in the Miserys. Dead Mule Notch was the big cat’s range. If he wasn’t able to bring down the occasional whitetail, Two-Toes must be getting slow. That could make him a potential man-killer. “Pete, maybe we should pull all of our cattle over to the lowlands—out of that cougar’s range.”

  The foreman glared at the boss. “Well if you ask me, and even if you won’t, I don’t think we oughta let this overgrown house cat run us offa two prime sections of the Columbine grazing. I say we get us some trained dogs that can track the sneaky rascal down. We get him treed, we shoot ’im, we skin ’im. Nail his sorry hide to the barn wall.”

  Moon shook his head. “Forget the dogs.”

  “What do you want to do then?”

  “I’ll think on it.”

  Sure. And while you’re thinkin’ on it, we’ll lose half the herd. Bushman stomped away.

  Chapter Eight

  Terminal Building

  CHARLIE MOON NOTED THE SIGN ERECTED BY A GRAND JUNCTION construction company, nosed the F-150 onto the lane linking the main highway with the site of the yet-unfinished Patch Davidson Airport. A crisply uniformed employee of a private security firm waved him down, stared through reflecting sunglasses at the tribal investigator’s ID. After a comically ludicrous attempt to intimidate the Ute, the officious Robocop waved him on without a word.

  The old county airport, six miles to the north, had a runway intended primarily for private pilots who buckled small, single-engine propeller aircraft to their butts. The new facility, named after Granite Creek’s favorite U.S. senator, boasted runways that would accommodate a Boeing 737 with five hundred yards to spare. He crossed the freshly blacktopped parking lot, slowed to a stop between a county fire truck and a matched pair of black and white GCPD squad cars. The red and blue lights were not flashing, presumably because there was no problem with traffic or gawking onlookers.

  Moon got out of his pickup, stared at what was left of the new terminal building.

  Inside a rectangle of yellow tape were two acres of blackened ruins. It was apparent that there had been a terrific explosion and a scorching fire. But not in that order. Aside from four walls of reinforced cinder block, little remained of the structure. Sections of Propanel roofing were strewn well past the taped border and into the edge of a forest of pines and cedars. A long row of seven-foot-square plate glass panes had been reduced to crystalline shards that were scattered over the parking lot. Where the glazing had been mounted, metal frames bulged outward from the force of the blast. Jagged remnants of the glass around the rim of the frames gave the eerie appearance of shark teeth lining enormous, open jaws. The inside of the terminal building shell was crusted with black soot. Metal-frame furniture and wooden partitions had been reduced to twisted skeletons and heaps of gray ash. A dozen helmeted firemen were picking their way about the ruins, spraying flame retardant on stubborn pockets of embers.

  The tribal investigator headed toward a cluster of men stationed just outside the perimeter of yellow tape.

  Scott Parris, who had been listening to a report from one of his officers, turned to see his friend approaching. “Mornin’, Charlie.”

  “Good morning yourself.” The tribal investigator exchanged perfunctory greetings with Officers Eddie “Rocks” Knox and E. C. “Piggy” Slocum. Both men were somewhat wary of the Ute.

  Knox scratched at the artificial leg under his trousers. “Damn thing itches worse’n the real one.”

  In the superior tone of one who is well informed on such matters, Piggy Slocum offered this advice: “That’s because you’re always scratching at it.”

  The pair of policemen walked away, arguing about wooden legs, phantom limbs, and what made them itch.

  The chief of police shook his head at the departing duo. “Charlie, you ever want to be a real cop again, you let me know. I’ll put you to work right on the spot.”

  “That’ll be the day.” Moon nodded at the smoking ruins. “What’ve we got here?”

  “Big explosion late last night. Or to be more accurate—this morning, at about two-thirty. Rattled windows up to four miles away. And according to reliable reports, several cows went dry and a black cat gave birth to six adorable little kittens and a Dalmatian puppy.” Parris was watching the helmeted firemen. “Fire department is trying to make sure there’s no chance of a new flame-up.”

  “Accidental?”

  “Fire chief’s best guess is that some dumb-ass kids started a small fire in the terminal building. There was lots of construction material stored here, most of it flammable. Plywood, paint thinner, gasoline for the contractor’s electrical generators, acetylene for welding, and a tank of propane for a portable heater. The fire must’ve gotten out of control—at which time the kids scram. Eventually, the flames ignited what was left of the gas in the acetylene and propane tanks. This makes a serious boom.”

  “Anybody see kids out here?”

  “Nobody saw nothin’.” The chief of police screwed his face into a painful frown. “It could have been a professional arsonist.”

  Moon found a peppermint in his pocket, peeled off the plastic cover. “Prime contractor must have plenty of insurance.”

  Parris nodded at the inference. “I’ll be checking into that today.” A builder in financial trouble might well drop a match in some tinder. “I’ll know a lot more after the state arson investigators wrap up their investigation.” He glanced at his watch without noting the time. “But they’re not even here yet.”

  “Were there guards on site last night?”

  Parris rubbed his eyes. “One old geezer with a hearing aid. Used to be a cop over in Pueblo before he retired on a disability. That’s his office.” The Granite Creek chief of police pointed toward a camping trailer almost two hundred yard away. It was set up near a huge, roofles
s hangar. “Guard swears he was wide awake.” Parris mimicked the old man’s quavery voice. “‘An’ I didn’t see nothin’ unusual, didn’t hear nothin’—not till all hell tore loose and the ’splosion knocked me on my ass.’” The good-natured man chuckled. “One of my officers was within four miles when the big boom blew the terminal building apart. When he got here about five minutes later, the guard was still trying to pull his boots on.”

  Moon took a look at the battered trailer. “So he was sleeping on the job.”

  “You know how it is. Damn hard to find good help.”

  The rancher thought about his motley collection of cowboys. “Tell me about it.”

  The friends walked back toward Moon’s truck.

  “So, Charlie—what’s on your mind?”

  “I’m doing a favor for the tribal chairman.”

  “No, don’t even give me a hint. Let me see if the old ESP is working.” Scott Parris pressed fingers against his temples. His mouth wrinkled into a wry imitation of a grin. “The Billy Smoke killing.”

  “You’re always one step ahead of me, pardner.”

  “I got wind that Oscar Sweetwater wasn’t satisfied with our findings.” The chief of police sighed. “When we don’t make an arrest, nobody likes it. Including me. But the FBI and the state police agree with my department on this one. It’s a no-brainer, Charlie. You know the basic facts. Billy’s wallet was missing. He was murdered during the process of an opportunistic robbery. And the senator had the bad luck to show up before the guy scrams. So he gets mugged and robbed. Lucky for Colorado we didn’t lose Patch Davidson.”

  “You a big fan of the senator?”

  “Not particularly. But he’s got tons of seniority, and that helps the state.” Parris looked back toward the charred terminal building. “It was Patch Davidson that got us the federal money for this new airport. Which makes just about everybody happy, and that will get him another two or three thousand votes come next election.”

  “Anybody not happy about the new airport?”

  Parris shrugged. “Any new construction on this scale is bound to piss somebody off. There’s been some complaints from a couple of environmental groups. But they haven’t been able to make any headway in court.”