Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  The Ute smiled at the dog, pulled away.

  The ranch lane curled around isolated clumps of juniper, took him up a long, steep grade.

  Can’t be far now.

  Finally, the F-150 topped the ridge. And there it was, in all its glory.

  Barely aware of what he was doing, Moon pulled the pickup to a halt. He got out, completely absorbed by the panorama of a darkly lush emerald valley. It was like a magic lantern’s projection cast on a sandy screen of barren land. Island groves of aspen and spruce floated in an undulating sea of wind-rippled grass. In the foreground, an anachronistic windmill turned, topping off a five-acre pond that would surely be stocked with flashing rainbow trout. Emerging from a dark cleft in the mountains, a long necklace of snow melt made a plunging loop into the bosom of the estate, liquid facets reflecting golden sunlight. Set as a gaudy jewel on this glistening chain was the wealthy man’s home. Like the verdant valley, the sprawling structure seemed to have been transplanted from someplace far away. Someplace where farmers got sixty inches of rain in a drought year.

  But Moon reminded himself that there was no magic here. The senator’s oasis was fertilized with wagonloads of greenbacks—and precious water, sucked from far beneath the dry hills.

  AS CHARLIE Moon approached the BoxCar headquarters, details of the magnificent structure gradually came into focus. The politician’s two-story palace was constructed of blood-red Wyoming sandstone, crowned with a pitched roof of burnt orange Spanish tile. Counting the windows, he estimated that the place must have at least thirty rooms. A long, open porch swept around the west end of mansion and across the south, ending at the entrance to a massive garage that interrupted the first floor.

  The candy-apple red motorcycle was leaning against a whitewashed hitching post.

  THE STRAW BOSS

  A PAIR of expectant eyes watched from between parted curtains. He’s here!

  MOON MOUNTED the porch, stood before a massive door. Hewn of a single slab of pine, it was varnished a pale yellow tint. Centered on the door was a polished iron horseshoe mounted on a brass rod. He reached for the knocker.

  “Hey—you.”

  Moon turned.

  The broad-shouldered man standing in the yard was tall, a good six-four. The chin was square, the jaw set, booted feet firmly planted on the watered grass. The eyes were shaded under the brim of a felt hat, but Moon could feel the hard stare.

  The Ute descended the porch steps.

  “Who’re you?”

  “Name’s Moon.”

  In a movement almost too casual to be noticed, the man’s right hand brushed against his unbuttoned denim jacket, parting it just enough to expose a black canvas holster on his hip. It was home to an ebony-handled automatic.

  The tribal investigator pegged it as a 9mm Glock. Not your typical cowboy’s choice for a sidearm.

  The mouth under the hat brim spoke again. “What’s your business on the BoxCar?”

  “I’m here to see the senator.”

  “You expected?”

  “I expect so.”

  There was a look of disbelief, then a mutter. “Nobody told me about you.” The unseen eyes glowered. “You got some ID?”

  The Ute reached under his jacket to a shirt pocket. He flipped open a small wallet, displayed his Southern Ute picture identity card. The gold-plated shield flashed sunlight in the man’s eyes.

  Broad Shoulders leaned to scowl at the color photograph on the plastic card, glanced at the Ute’s face for a comparison. “Indian cop, huh.” He looked suspiciously at Moon’s suit coat. “You packin’?”

  The Ute pulled his jacket back.

  The shaded eyes did a quick search. “I’ll have to make a call.” He pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, punched callused fingers at the small buttons. He watched the suspect visitor until someone answered. “This is Henry. I got a Mr. Moon here at the big house. He on today’s visitor list?” A pause. “Uh-huh. Well, somebody shoulda told me.” He pointed the instrument at the guest. “Looks like you’re okay.”

  Hard-bitten cowboys tended to be direct to the point of rudeness and Moon was not easily offended. But this was a little less than one expected of western hospitality. He returned the ID wallet to his shirt pocket, then leaned sideways to peer behind the man.

  “What’re you lookin’ for?”

  “Thought maybe you was pulling the Welcome Wagon.”

  The hard mouth relaxed into a grin. “Didn’t mean to seem unfriendly. But it’s my job to look after things around here. Since the boss got assaulted—well, I guess I’m more’n a little touchy about strangers.” He pushed the hat back on his head.

  Now Moon could see all of the man’s leathery face. The hard eyes were narrowed by years of squinting into the sun. The Ute stared at the slits.

  Realization dawned on the man’s face. “Wait a damn minute—you that Indian fella who owns the Columbine?”

  “Same one.”

  “Well I’m extra sorry for the cool reception. Before the boss got all busted up, I didn’t behave like this. Now, every stranger looks like an outlaw.” He stuck out his hand.

  The Ute accepted it. Like the rest of the man, it was hard and knobby.

  “No harm done, Mr. Buford.”

  “Sounds like you already know who I am.” He gave the Ute’s hand another hearty shake. “But call me Henry.”

  “Okay, Henry.”

  “Tell you what—on your way out, you stop off at my place. If you’re hungry, I’ll heat up some stew. If you’re thirsty, we’ll toss down a drink.”

  “Your place must be the one under the cottonwoods. With the bluetick hound.”

  Buford grinned. “That’s where I rest my bones.”

  “Thanks for the invite.” Moon nodded toward the senator’s massive, blood-red house. “Anybody at home here?”

  “Only way to find out is bang on the door.” Henry Buford turned on his heel and marched away in the rhythmic, purposeful stride of a man who knew where he was going, and why—and how to get the job done when he got there.

  The Ute watched him go. Former Marine, maybe. Or Infantry.

  THE NEPHEW

  BEFORE CHARLIE Moon could rap the horseshoe against the varnished pine slab, the door opened. A face appeared.

  It belonged to the straw-haired motorcyclist, who was lean and lanky. Dressed in dirty khaki shorts, a dirtier white linen shirt, and oxblood leather sandals, the young man smelled like he hadn’t bathed in a month. The sandals and short pants were right for the mild weather. But the motorcycle daredevil wore long sleeves. And, though he had been inside the house for several minutes—dark glasses. The tribal investigator imagined enlarged pupils under the opaque lenses. Needle tracks hidden under the linen sleeves.

  The man spoke in a thin voice that managed to be condescending without sounding unfriendly. “You must be Mr. Charles Moon.”

  “That’s me.”

  “I am Allan Pearson.”

  “The senator’s nephew. And the guy on the red Suzuki who passed me a couple of miles back.” Like a bat outta hell.

  “You are both well informed and observant.” A mocking smile. “But then I suppose that is to be expected—considering your profession.”

  “I’m a stockman.”

  “I am quite aware that you raise Hereford cattle. I also know that you are a Native American—”

  “Southern Ute.”

  “—who, in a former life, was a tribal police officer. You are currently licensed as a private investigator.”

  “You are also pretty well informed.”

  “I know everything that goes on for miles around.” This did not have the tone of an idle boast. Alan Pearson stepped aside and made a slightly exaggerated gesture with the sweep of a pale hand. “Do come in.”

  The Ute followed the senator’s nephew across a sunlit parlor covered with ankle-deep carpet, then down a red-tiled hallway.

  The guide spoke over his shoulder. “My celebrated uncle is with Miss James, h
is personal assistant. They are in the secure meeting room, on the telephone with villains of such exalted rank that one fairly shudders—who can even imagine what evil deeds are being planned?” Allan Pearson’s sandals flopped comically as he padded along the ceramic tiles. “I dare say my uncle does not give a diddledy-damn whether you live or die, but Miss James asked me to express his deepest regrets that he is unable to greet you personally. And so there you have it.”

  Moon smiled at the back of the young man’s head.

  Pearson turned a corner, passed by an acrylic painting of a massive Hereford bull. The work of art was illuminated by a fluorescent lamp.

  The Ute rancher stopped to admire the image of the magnificent beast. Man alive. What I could do for my herd with an animal like this.

  Pearson paused, beamed an amused smile at the Indian. “You are, I take it, an ardent admirer of highly inbred bovines?”

  Having barely heard the remark, Moon nodded dumbly at the Hereford facsimile. Wonder what something like that would set me back.

  “Personally, I detest the very thought of putting the slaughtered flesh of innocent animals inside my body.”

  The rancher, mesmerized by the bull’s image, nodded amiably.

  His agitated host was rocking heel to toe. “When you have had your fill of this sad little piece of poster art, please come with me.”

  Moon tore himself away from the painting, followed Allan Pearson into a large room. After the dimly lighted hallway, it was like walking into a greenhouse under the noonday sun.

  “This is the senator’s library.”

  Charlie Moon looked around. Did not see any books.

  Allan smiled at the guest, exposing a pearly set of teeth. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’d be glad to brew up some of my special blend.”

  I bet you would. “Thanks, but no.”

  “Coffee, then?”

  Moon thought about it. “Wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

  Pearson’s fingers played with a copper bracelet on his left wrist. “I assume you would not mind informing me as to the purpose of your visit.” The young man offered a mocking smile. “Unless you are here on highly confidential business.”

  So. Your uncle didn’t tell you. “Tribal chairman has asked me to look into the Billy Smoke homicide.”

  “Really?” The eyes went flat. Allan Pearson turned to look out the east-facing window. “The Southern Ute tribe’s interest in the murder of one of its members is quite understandable. But unless I am mistaken, the federal authorities have exclusive charge of the investigation.”

  “It’s a shared jurisdiction. FBI is collaborating with Granite Creek PD.”

  Pearson sniffed. “Which leaves you…precisely where?”

  “I have no official capacity, except as a representative of the tribal chairman.”

  The senator’s nephew affected a slight curl of the lip. “And what do you expect to accomplish that the FBI, with all its considerable resources, cannot?”

  “Hard to say.” The tribal investigator wondered what was bothering this young fellow. “Guess I’ll just poke around some. See if I can get under somebody’s skin.”

  Pearson clenched his delicate hands into tight little fists. “That sounds like a good working definition of an irritant.”

  “Does, doesn’t it?” The tall Ute fixed his inquisitor with a flinty stare. “It’ll be interesting to see who gets itchy.”

  Quite unconsciously, the senator’s nephew scratched at his neck.

  Moon grinned. I am having too much fun.

  “Please excuse me,” Pearson snapped.

  Moon watched him leave, heard the sandals flip-flopping down the tiled hallway.

  THE WOMAN

  HAVING BEEN deprived of his smelly, irritable host, Moon felt lonely. As an exercise, the tribal investigator made a visual inspection of the “library.” There were a dozen overstuffed chairs. Two matching couches long enough to nap on. A scattering of small tables, all topped with pink marble. An antique bar—apparently salvaged from an old saloon—ran almost the full length of the north wall. On oak paneling above the bar, there was a framed painting of a pale, plump woman reclining on a gilded couch. Her cheeks were blushed with embarrassment—apparently because her ample form was draped in translucent yellow silk. The opposite wall was a jarring contrast, fairly bristling with state-of-the-art electronic equipment. The centerpiece was a large-screen television. Flanking this were an array of speakers, concealed behind acoustic mesh in five-foot-high enclosures. There was a scattering of expensive-looking VCRs and DVD players. An audio spectrum analyzer. Two computers. Several telephones. Something that looked like a shortwave transmitter. In a corner by itself, an anachronism—an antique radio. A black horn speaker curved gracefully over the varnished maple enclosure, which boasted eight tuning knobs. On a massive shelf just above the television screen, a hundred-gallon aquarium fluoresced in a faint purple glow from cunningly concealed illumination. A dune of lavender-tinted sand was heaped on the bottom of the glazed tank, and this was speckled with glistening stones of various sizes and colors. But there was not a drop of water. Behind the thick glass lurked a black and yellow Gila monster, its scaled belly plumped out on a flat rock. Moon wondered whether the thing was alive. More likely this was the product of a skilled taxidermist’s hand. To get a better look; he leaned close. The venomous lizard twitched a fat sausage tail.

  The descendant of stone-age sages watched with fascination. If it could talk, what would the scaly creature say to him?

  The Gila monster shot the Ute a poisonous look. Opened its mouth…

  “Mr. Moon?”

  The startled man stared at the reptile for a long moment. No. Couldn’t be. He turned.

  The woman in the doorway was a vision from the 1890s. She wore a ruffled yellow blouse, an ankle-length blue skirt, an enigmatic smile. An antique cameo was nestled against her throat. Glistening black hair spilled in rippling waves to a slender waist. For a disjointed moment, Moon completely lost his reason—he fancied that he had encountered a spirit who haunted the halls of the palatial sandstone home.

  The faery queen floated across the space between them, offered her hand. “I am the senator’s personal assistant, Miss James.”

  He heard himself saying something about being very glad to be here. Which was a sizable understatement.

  “We are happy that you could find the time to pay us a visit.” She squeezed his hand.

  I think she likes me. Charlie Moon grinned so hard his jaws ached.

  “The senator is pleased that you have arrived.” The oval face was looking up at him.

  I bet you have to beat the men off with a stick. But he sensed something hidden somewhere behind the astonishingly pretty face. A deep sadness.

  She withdrew her hand. But not all that quickly. “At the moment you arrived, the senator was occupied with some unexpected business, and it was necessary for me to assist him. We regret that there was not someone here to greet you properly, but the senator prefers to keep the staff at his western home to an absolute minimum.”

  “His nephew let me in.”

  She hesitated. “I do hope Allan has taken good care of you.”

  Allan? “Oh—yeah.”

  “Would you like to see the senator now?”

  “No.”

  She echoed. “No?”

  “No, ma’am. I’d much rather talk with you.”

  Miss James arched a pretty eyebrow. “About what?”

  Anything at all.

  She waited.

  Moon felt his face burning. What do I say now? “Uh—it’s my job. Talking to people, I mean. Asking questions.” He looked over her head. Tried to think of a question. “You like living out here?” I am an idiot. And that’s a compliment.

  “I adore it.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “All the open space. The quiet.”

  The drowning man grasped at this fragment of flotsam. “I own the ranch next door. The Columbine.”

  “I k
now. I have heard that it is an absolutely lovely place.” The silver dollar-sized eyes sparkled with mischief. “But it may be that these are mere rumors. Perhaps the Columbine’s reputation is inflated.”

  “There’s only one way to find out for sure.”

  “Why, Mr. Moon—is that an invitation?”

  “No, but this is—Miss James, would you like to drop by for a visit?”

  There was a flicker of uncertainty; she looked away. “I don’t know. My responsibilities here keep me rather busy.”

  “Not a problem. I’ll tell the boss man to give you a day off.”

  “Oh, no—that will not be necessary.” She studied his face. It was a nice face. “When?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  “Life is short.”

  Miss James gazed out the window, toward the jagged range of granite peaks. “Perhaps on one of my days off—”

  “Okay, then. It’s a deal.”

  A telephone warbled.

  She withdrew her hand from his, slipped the instrument under a long strand of raven hair, taking care not to press it against a tiny pearl mounted on an earlobe. “Yes.” She listened. “Certainly. I will be there directly.” Miss James pressed a button to silence the telephone, smiled at the tall man. “I must be off to assist the senator for a moment. I do hope you don’t mind waiting for him a little while longer.”

  “I mind a lot,” he said. “But I’ll hang around.”

  She flashed a man-killing smile, vanished.

  It was as if the sun had gone down. Forever.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THE SENATOR

  ALL ALONE IN THE WEALTHY MAN’S LIBRARY-WITHOUT-BOOKS, Charlie Moon was at peace with himself. As he gazed out the window at sun-streaked clouds slipping over granite peaks, his happy thoughts drifted along with them. Maybe she’ll like the Columbine. And want to come back again. Then, maybe…

  The rancher’s blissful daydream was interrupted by the sound of a raspy cough. He turned to see a bushy-haired man under the entry arch. The lower half of Patch Davidson’s spare form was concealed in a high-tech vehicle mounted on four plump pneumatic tires. There were control panels on both armrests, a telescoping antenna erupting behind the Moroccan leather seat. The chrome logo on the sloping hood asserted that this was a 4WD Electric GroundHog.