Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  Jane Brewster rubbed a callused finger over a stubborn crease in the blue and white oilcloth. Her rough-edged voice took on a defensive tone. “What does that have to do with my Wilma?”

  “Probably nothing. But I know you did some cooking for the senator.”

  “That’s why you’re here?”

  “That, and the possibility that the young lady my aunt spoke to might be your daughter.” Mostly, I’m just shooting in the dark. “There must be a reason this young woman wants to talk to me.” The tribal investigator slowed to a trot before jumping the next fence. “When you worked at the BoxCar, did your daughter ever drop by to visit you—maybe help with the cooking?”

  She coughed up a bitter laugh. “Wilma couldn’t boil a thimble of water if she had a blowtorch.”

  “So she was never on the ranch with you?”

  The hardworking woman rubbed rough palms together. “Sometimes when I couldn’t get a ride out there, Wilma would drive me over to the BoxCar. Other times she’d come pick me up when my work was done. But she never stayed long.”

  “When was the last time she was at the ranch?”

  Jane Brewster studied her hands for a long time. As if she had never really seen them. When the examination was complete, she looked up at the Ute. “It was the last time I saw her. She drove out to pick me up that afternoon. It was the Thursday before Christmas.” She closed her eyes to concentrate. “That must’ve been on the twenty-first.”

  “Anything else happen that day? I mean—anything unusual.”

  Mrs. Brewster smiled without mirth. “Yeah. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was my last day at the BoxCar. And it was just three days later—on a Sunday—the senator got crippled and his driver got himself killed.” She looked through a cracked windowpane at nothing in particular. “Patch Davidson was in the hospital off and on for almost two months. I never got called back to work. Guess that rich man found out he could get along fine without me.”

  “Tell me about that day when your daughter came to pick you up.”

  A listless shrug. “Nothing special. She showed up. I finished cleaning up the kitchen. We left. Next day, she went to work at her university job. Wilma was a part-time campus police officer. Wore a spiffy uniform. Rode around on a shiny bicycle.”

  Outside, the bored dog barked at nothing. The shack was surrounded by acres and acres of nothing.

  Moon accepted a refill on his coffee.

  She watched him drink. “You have any idea where my daughter’s holed up?”

  There was no point in mentioning Rio Hondo. “She’s probably staying with some friends.”

  She anticipated his question. “If she has any friends, I don’t know who they are.”

  The tribal investigator stared at the surface of the black liquid.

  Her elbows on the table, the woman leaned forward. “You find my Wilma, you tell that girl to come see her mother.”

  It’s time to go. Moon thanked her for the coffee and conversation. At the front door, the Ute fished a thin wallet out of his hip pocket. Hesitated. The F-150 was running on fumes, and there would be six dollars left for gasoline. He gave the woman his last twenty.

  She looked at the greenback, then at the tall man. “What’s this for?”

  “Expenses.” Moon avoided the intelligent blue eyes. “If you hear anything about your daughter—or think of something I need to know—I expect you to go into town. Find a pay phone, call me.”

  The woman opened her mouth to speak, said nothing. The reddened eyes teared up.

  Embarrassed, Moon turned away. “Well, I better be getting on down the road.”

  Jane Brewster found a hoarse voice. “I don’t know. I never took nothing from nobody that I didn’t earn. I just don’t think it’s right to—”

  “Sure it’s right—think of it as a bribe.” He flashed her a smile that lit up forty acres of twilight. “And you’ll earn it. From time to time I’ll drop by and make a nuisance of myself.”

  She showed him a careworn face that had once been pretty enough to inspire foolish young men to hang around her father’s front porch. “You’re quite a sly fellow, Mr. Moon.”

  He tipped the John B. Stetson. “Call me Charlie.”

  She crumpled the bill in a fist. Watched the slender man make long strides toward his pickup.

  Chapter Ten

  GHOST TOWN

  LONG WISPS OF FOG HUNG LIKE SPIDERWEBS UNDER THE SPRUCE. Unseen things rustled among the dark ferns, a demented owl who didn’t know noon from midnight hooted at the intruders. It was enough to make even a sensible man muse about ghosts and goblins and other unmentionable horrors. Neither of the police officers measured above zero on the sensible scale.

  Leaning forward, his back muscles painfully tense, Officer “Piggy” Slocum steered the GCPD black-and-white along a forest service road slippery from recent rain. He stated his candid opinion to his fellow, Eddie “Rocks” Knox, who was yawning. “This is stupid, Eddie—no young woman in her right mind would be camping out at Arroyo Hondo.”

  “So maybe she’s a nutso.” Knox allowed the interrupted yawn to play out. “Quit your bellyaching—we get paid by the hour, don’t we? If we wasn’t looking for this redheaded gal, we might be doin’ lots worse duty back in town.”

  Slocum gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. “This ain’t no four-wheel-drive Jeep. We could get stuck out here.”

  “So what if we do?”

  Visions of cold and hunger loomed in the damp mists hanging over the dirt road. “I don’t like gettin’ stuck way back in the boonies.”

  “Relax, Piggy. We got a radio, don’t we? If we have a problem, we call dispatch for a tow. Then we sit here as long as it takes. Eat our sandwiches, drink our coffee, swap lies. And if the wrecker truck takes a long, long time getting here, we draw some time-and-a-half. All for sittin’ on our butts.”

  The driver brightened. “Yeah. I guess that wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “O’course it wouldn’t.” Knox, who enjoyed tormenting his timid partner, frowned at the dark forest. “Not if we got help before the bears showed up. Started sniffin’ around the unit, trying to find a way inside—so they could eat all that fat under your shirt.”

  Piggy Slocum pretended to be unconcerned. “Bears eat berries, not people.”

  Officer Knox reached down to scratch the wooden leg. It kept right on itching. “Piggy, you are ignernt as a post. Why this time of year, when they’re startin’ to think about puttin’ on weight for the long winter’s sleep, a hungry bear’ll eat anything. Road-kill skunks. Moose turds. Even fat, greasy cops.”

  Slocum tried a comeback. “Well, after Mr. Bear et me, he’d sure as hell have you for dessert.”

  Knox shook his head. “No, he wouldn’t.”

  The driver glanced at the confident man. “Why not?”

  “First of all, ’cause he’d be all full up after swallerin’ somethin’ big as you. And second, if he did bare his teeth at me, I’d just give him this here artificial leg to chew on. He’d realize right off that a bite of Officer Knox didn’t have no nutrition.”

  The driver attempted to find some chink in this logic, but was unable. So he changed the subject. “I’ll bet you ten dollars to five that this Brewster gal ain’t out here.”

  Knox yawned again. “You can keep that bet.”

  They topped the last ridge. Officer Piggy Slocum slowed to a stop, looked around the barren remains of a mining settlement that had died out before Teddy Roosevelt was elected president of the United States. There were remnants of tar paper shacks, heaps of fist-size pebbles where makeshift chimneys had once stood, scattered sheets of rusted roofing material. But aside from a raven perched on a lightning-seared snag, not the least sign of life. Including bears. Which the chubby policeman was thankful for.

  Knox opened the passenger-side door, got out stiffly. He hobbled his sideways gait a few paces down the forest service road, alert for evidence of recent visitors. There were a few tire tracks, bu
t the officer estimated them to be at least a week old. Probably left by the single overworked forest ranger who patrolled over a thousand square miles of federal land. The policeman leaned on the wooden prosthesis, cupped hand to mouth. “Helllloooo…anybody here?” He was answered by an echo off the sandstone cliff above the arroyo. The police officer needed about fifteen seconds to come to the inevitable conclusion. There’s no use wasting time here. Knox, who had several times skirted very close to death, had gained a deep intuition about such matters. Aside from me and Piggy, there ain’t a living human soul within ten miles. But even so…this ain’t a healthy place to hang around.

  Piggy Slocum felt beads of cold sweat popping out on his forehead, a sourness settling in the pit of his ample belly. At the corner of his eye, a shadowy something darted under the spruce. He stuck his head out the window. “Hey Eddie, let’s get goin’.” Something ain’t right here.

  Chapter Eleven

  THE VISITOR

  TWO LONG ROWS OF FLOODLIGHTS ILLUMINATED THE BOXCAR AIRSTRIP. In a vain attempt to find some comfort, the elder statesman scooted around in the plush rear seat of the Lincoln. Senator Patch Davidson consulted the platinum Rolex on his wrist, hunched forward to complain to Henry Buford. “He should have been here by now.”

  The man behind the steering wheel shrugged.

  Davidson scratched under a steel brace at one of his wasted legs.

  “There.” Buford raised his right hand to point.

  The wealthy politician pushed his nose against the window, squinted at a spray of pinprick lights over the eastern peaks. One of the stars seemed to move…and wink, as if it knew a delectable secret. The senator allowed himself a smile. That would be the blinking white strobe light on the fuselage. Soon, he could make out the alternating red and blue lights on the wing tips. The aircraft was losing altitude. “That must be him.”

  Henry Buford got out of the luxury automobile, went to meet the visitor.

  THE BOXCAR manager held onto the brim of his hat until the pilot cut the engine and the propeller came to a jerky halt. The hatch opened, a single passenger climbed out of the small airplane. The short, stocky figure was wrapped in a London Fog raincoat that was the sooty gray color of night. The ranch manager grinned. “Art Westerfield—it’s good to see you.”

  The Defense Intelligence Agency attorney raised a finger to his lips, glanced over his shoulder at the pilot. “Dammit, Henry—don’t say my name.”

  Buford laughed. “What’s the matter, you give up your job as legal counsel to become one of Uncle Sam’s secret agents?”

  “Please—nobody’s supposed to know I’m here.” Disoriented by the dark of night and the rows of runway lights, he looked around. “Where’s Davidson?”

  “The senator came to the airstrip to meet you. He’s waiting in the car.”

  “What car?”

  “It’s parked behind the hangar.”

  The visitor had no idea where the hanger was. “Can Patch see us?”

  “Not unless he can see through steel walls, like Superman. Does it matter?”

  The DIA employee fidgeted, leaning first on one leg, then the other.

  “Let’s get going, Art. The boss hates to be kept waiting, especially by two-bit government lawyers.”

  Arthur Westerfield decided to confide in a man he had always trusted. “Henry, the senator has a problem. A very serious problem.”

  “Then you’d better go tell him about it.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. But first, I think I should tell you.”

  “Look, Art—I manage the BoxCar for the old man. I drive him around in his big, shiny Lincoln. I fix things that are broke. Now and again, I even shovel horse manure—and other things that smell bad. But I never, never stick my nose into politics.”

  “This is about considerably more than politics.” The attorney lowered his voice. “I’m talking national security. And you used to work for the Agency.”

  “That was way back then. This is here and now.”

  “Dammit, Henry, I only got a New York minute to tell you about this. So shut your big yap and listen!”

  Henry Buford shut up. And listened.

  The DIA attorney said his few words, waited for a response from the ranch manager. “Well?”

  “If this is on the level, the senator should contact the FBI. They’ll know what to do.”

  “My sentiments exactly. But you know how Patch Davidson hates the Bureau. If you have any influence at all over him—”

  “I doubt he’ll confide in me about something like this. But if he brings it up, I’ll advise him to call in the feds.”

  “Thanks. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “Well, you’ve heard it. Now let’s go say hello to the senator.”

  Arthur Westerfield walked stiffly as he followed Henry Buford toward the Lincoln. He exchanged brief greetings with Patch Davidson, then settled into the rear seat beside the senator. On the short drive to the powerful man’s home, they talked about the weather. And the president’s push to reform the Social Security and Medicare programs.

  After Buford had delivered his passengers to the sandstone mansion, the ranch manager wandered off to the kitchen to find a snack, leaving Patch Davidson alone with the quirky DIA attorney.

  THE SENATOR, secure in the warmth of his parlor, settled into the Moroccan leather comfort of his Electric GroundHog. In command of his mobility, Davidson felt more the man for it. He pushed the joystick forward, felt the surge of power as the battery-powered scooter hummed obediently across a thick, chocolate-colored carpet. He braked expertly at a walnut liquor cabinet, turned a craggy face toward his guest. “What would you like?”

  “Straight whiskey.” The employee of the Defense Intelligence Agency, still cold from the flight from Denver, was rubbing his hands together.

  His host poured two thumbs of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. “How was your trip?”

  A listless shrug. “Okay.”

  Davidson passed the shot glass to his guest. “The hour is rather late for meeting guests. Not that I’m complaining.”

  “Couldn’t be helped.” Westerfield took a sip of whisky. “Grabbed a late flight from Dulles to Denver, found me a freelance flyboy. Paid him cash, and a fifty-dollar tip not to file a flight plan. Gave him a John Doe—so he wouldn’t know who he brought here.”

  The senator chuckled. “You’re not usually so paranoid. I fear that the nature of the work must be getting to you.”

  Judging from his grim expression, the visitor was not amused.

  What is eating him? “Perhaps we should retire to the conference room and discuss this urgent business that brings you to the BoxCar.”

  The Agency attorney cast a nervous look down the long hallway, shook his head.

  “Very well.” Davidson blocked a yawn with the back of his hand. “Then I suggest we both get some sleep. Whatever’s on your mind can surely keep till after breakfast.”

  Westerfield shook his head. “I got a pilot and plane waiting—at two hundred and ninety bucks an hour, whether the tin bucket’s on the ground or in the air. Thirty minutes, I’m outta here. I got some official business in Denver tomorrow. That was my excuse for the trip.”

  “Arthur, you’re beginning to worry me—”

  “Don’t say my name out loud in here,” the guest hissed. He pointed toward the door. “Let’s go outside.”

  “Outside—is that really necessary?”

  The DIA employee was already on his feet, heading for the door to the south porch.

  DAVIDSON HAD paused long enough to yank a wool blanket off the couch. He spread this over his legs, and was grateful for the warmth. “You rent a charter under an assumed name. You tip your pilot to avoid filing a flight plan. You don’t want to discuss your business inside my home. Now what is all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, Arthur?” He smiled in the darkness. “But excuse me—I suppose I should refer to you as Mr. X.”

  Westerfield buttoned the raincoat agai
nst the night chill, exhaled frost-white breath with his words. “I guess we can say whatever we want out here.” He looked down at the crippled man. The senator’s soft, shadowy form had melted into the blackness of the electric conveyance. “I appreciate all the favors you did for me over the years. Especially the one back in ’ninety-nine—when I damn near lost my clearance over that alleged leak and my marginal polygraph result. If you hadn’t intervened—well, I don’t know what I’d be doing now.” Maybe chasing ambulances. “But I sure wouldn’t be working for Uncle Sam.”

  “I was happy to help.” Get on with it, Art.

  “I’m eternally grateful to you, sir. That’s why I’m here now—to return the favor.” And then we’re square. Arthur stared at the empty shot glass in his hand. Wished it was full.

  The senator waited. Wondered whether he really wanted to hear what this man might have to say.

  A meteor fragment slipped across the sky, burning white-hot for a hundred empty miles. Its glory expressed for an instant, the galactic ember was reduced to a dark cinder, to fall to earth where no human eye would ever see it. The DIA operative watched this ominous symbol. That could be my career. Might as well get it over with. “Last January, I got a promotion.”

  “Well-deserved, I’m sure.”

  “I’m DIA’s senior rep on the IAC.”

  “For pity’s sake, Arthur—we’re not inside the Beltway. This is my home. So do not confuse me with acronyms.”

  Absently, the attorney sipped air from the dry shot glass. “Interagency Analysis Committee. Last Thursday, we had a meeting at Langley.” He lowered his voice. “Something came up. About you.”

  Senator Davidson listened to the silence drift along in the deep river of night.

  “I really shouldn’t be talking about this.”

  Still, the politician did not respond.

  Damn. Maybe he already knows about it. “Okay—here it is. We got some hot intel. HUMINT, I think—but I’m not certain. I can’t mention the particular foreign power involved, but it’s a major player.” He rolled the cold glass in his hand. “All I can say, Senator, is that there’s been some serious leaks from…well, it must be somebody on your staff.”