Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  Moon watched bulbous clouds grow thick and dark over the Misery Range—a crop of hideous black mushrooms. Here and there, they sprouted roots of electric fire.

  Sensing that his fish was not quite enticed to bite, Senator Davidson dipped the barbed hook into honey. “While I would naturally consider this service on your part as a personal favor, there are certain advantages to you.”

  “I’d like to hear one or two of them.”

  The senator counted on his fingers. “Firstly, you get paid. Secondly—”

  “Whoa! Secondly can wait its turn. I want to hear more about firstly.”

  The senator sniffed at a wilted rose blossom. “Whatever that skin-flint Oscar Sweetwater is paying you, I will gladly double.”

  Moon tried hard not to look overjoyed. “Tribe also pays my expenses.”

  “Certainly I would cover your expenses. That goes without saying.”

  “Say it anyway.”

  “Miss James will see that you are issued a credit card on the BoxCar account. Platinum, I should think.” He attempted a stern look. “All expenditures would have to be justified, of course.”

  “That goes without saying. Now we can get to secondly.”

  “Secondly, my instructions to the Bureau will stipulate that in any issue related to physical security at the BoxCar, or to my personal security—which of course includes the assault upon and maiming of myself, and the brutal murder of your fellow tribesman—that Mr. Charles Moon shall be considered my personal representative. Any request said Mr. Moon shall make in regard to these issues will hereafter be treated by the FBI as coming directly from myself.”

  The tribal investigator shook his head. “They’d never agree to that.”

  The senator smirked. “Sir, you obviously have not the least idea of the influence of my office.”

  “Maybe not. But I’ve got a pretty good idea what Mr. Hoover’s feds will say to your proposal.”

  “You seem very sure of yourself. But perhaps it is all pretense.”

  The Ute removed a greenback from his wallet, stuck it on a rosebush thorn. “Here’s five bucks that says they’ll laugh in your face.”

  Davidson blinked. “You are proposing a wager?”

  “What’s the matter—rich fella like you can’t afford to lose a few bucks?”

  “Alas, I have no cash on my person.”

  “I’ll trust you for it. So go ahead, give the FBI your best shot.”

  The senator closed one eye. Pointed the cold cigar under the looped finger of his left hand—aimed toward an imaginary cue ball. Snapped his head back. “There, did you see that?”

  Moon shook his head. “You must’ve slipped one by me.”

  “Aha—the hand is indeed quicker than the eye. The nine ball is in the corner pocket. Has been, in fact, since last evening.”

  “I didn’t think that shot was on the table.”

  “You were mistaken. The most high and mighty director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation has already agreed to my conditions. Mr. Charles Moon is accepted as my liaison to the FBI. For the official record, the purpose of this arrangement is to aid in Mr. Moon’s investigation into the reprehensible murder of his esteemed tribal member and the ruthless maiming of one of this nation’s most respected and beloved—not to mention modest—members of the United States Senate.”

  “The director didn’t even put up a fuss?”

  “Actually, he did do some moaning and groaning. But not about you. Before your name came up, I suggested that my personal attorney—a man highly detested by the Bureau—would act in my stead. My plucky lawyer is practically a charter member of the ACLU. Worse still, he has effectively represented at least three despicable persons who allegedly shot at and wounded FBI special agents. Not a one of these probable felons has yet seen the inside of a federal penitentiary. When I uttered my attorney’s name, the director—normally a rather placid fellow—screamed shocking obscenities into the telephone. One pithy reference had to do with myself ice-skating in hell on the Fourth of July. In light of my specific injuries, I considered this reference bordering on insensitive. But truth be told, I did not actually want my attorney to act as my liaison. The point was to make Mr. Hoover’s most recent successor happy to hear any other name—like ‘Charles Moon.’ As might be expected, the director does not know you personally. But it turns out that your contacts in the Durango office—while not entirely enthusiastic about your previous alleged poaching in their exclusive game park—do give you high marks for integrity. And discretion. And so the director has agreed. You are the man.” Davidson snatched the fiver off the rose bush, stuffed it into his pocket.

  Charlie Moon realized that he had underestimated the politician. Not a smart thing to do. “Well, I’ll say it straight out—I sure wouldn’t a thought you coulda done it.”

  Senator Patch Davidson gave the unlighted cigar a yearning look, imagined a fragrant corkscrew of gray smoke curling from a red-hot tip. “Faint praise, indeed. And somewhat lacking in verbal harmony. Nevertheless, sweet music to my ears.”

  “So it’s a done deal.”

  “Except for the paperwork. You will require a limited-access security clearance. My able staff has already prepared the necessary forms for your signature, and the FBI director assures me that your application will be put on the fast track.”

  The tribal investigator cocked his head. Looked at the thing from all angles. It was like an old, tired horse. Moderately ugly. Swaybacked as an upside-down rainbow. Ribs sticking out. Probably blind in one eye. But if a man sat easy in the saddle—didn’t put a spur to it—why, he might be able to ride the nag all the way to the bank. And so he gave the senator’s scheme his blessing. “This arrangement could work pretty good for both of us.”

  “You have spoken rightly, sir. The uphill path of your investigation into the brutal murder of Mr. Smoke has been appreciably leveled. And in the instance of my unwanted collaboration with those hip-shooting lawyers from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the consequent risk of an embarrassing exposure is minimized.” He grinned like a small boy. “You and me, Charlie Moon—we are the A-team. And we are playing a win-win game.” He looked toward the massive sandstone house. “I do believe that concludes our business.”

  “There is one other thing. You used to have a Mrs. Brewster working for you. In the kitchen.”

  Avoiding Moon’s penetrating gaze, the politician examined five perfectly manicured nails on his right hand. “Yes. Jane is an extraordinary cook.”

  “You miss her?”

  “Indeed I do.” He rubbed at an inflamed cuticle. “I assume there is a reason for your interest in my former domestic help.”

  Moon thought about it. “There’s a reason.” Maybe not a good one. “Mrs. Brewster has a daughter. Wilma was an engineering student at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic.”

  Davidson cocked an aristocratic eyebrow. “Was?”

  The Ute watched the wily politician’s face. “Miss Brewster has not been in contact with her mother—or in her own apartment—since last December. Just a few days before Billy Smoke was murdered in the back lot of the Blue Light Cafe.”

  “I had not heard about Jane’s daughter being missing.” Davidson raised a hand to shield his eyes from a sudden spray of sunlight. “Is there any evidence of foul play?”

  “Nope. But the young woman left town without telling her mother why.”

  “Well, I am sorry for Jane. But surely her daughter’s absence has nothing to do with Billy’s death. It must be a coincidence.”

  “You’re probably right. But I don’t much like coincidences.” The Ute squatted by the crippled man’s battery-powered scooter. “Why isn’t Mrs. Brewster still working for you?”

  “I do not like being cross-examined about my help.”

  Moon waited, knowing the white man would not be able to bear the silence.

  “Oh, very well. I was in the hospital, then in a rehab center for several weeks. During that time, Jane simply wasn’t needed he
re at the BoxCar. When I got back…well, I got into the habit of ordering food from the caterer. Also, I have a need for quiet. Jane was always banging pots and pans about. And singing loudly. Jarringly off-key, I might add.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I don’t understand why you’re quizzing me about my former cook.” The politician shot the tribal investigator a curious sideways glance. “You onto something?”

  Charlie Moon dodged the question. “If Mrs. Brewster was filling out an application for a job, and it called for a recommendation from her previous employer—should she write your name in the blank spot?”

  Patch Davidson hesitated, then nodded. “Of course.” He played with the GroundHog joy stick. “All this talk about food has whetted my appetite.” He licked his lips. “You will, of course, join me for a meal.”

  “Thanks for the offer. I have to be going.” Moon thought he saw an expression of relief in the rich man’s face.

  “Another time, then.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well, then, I have some things to attend to. I will say my good-bye.”

  The Ute watched the electric scooter make its way up the slight grade toward the BoxCar headquarters. The crippled man seemingly a captive in its clutches, the sleek machine beetled around amongst barbed bushes and misshapen shrubs.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SUPPER WITH HENRY

  MOON PULLED THE F-150 OFF AT THE BOXCAR MANAGER’S LOG house, parked under an aged cottonwood with bark that was afflicted with a plague of bulbous lumps resembling lemon-sized warts.

  Henry Buford emerged onto the front porch before the Ute cut the ignition. The hound did not bother to appear whole—only a long snout and a pair of luminous eyes were visible under the rough plank porch. The beast stretched a skinny neck, strained to produce the croaking bark.

  Buford grinned at the shy beast. “C’mon out, Grape-Eye.”

  The hound came forth, received an affectionate pat from his master.

  The ranch manager welcomed his visitor with a hearty handshake. “C’mon in.” The dog followed the men inside.

  The Ute entered a large, old-fashioned parlor. A corroded brass light fixture dangled from the beamed ceiling. Three of the four sixty-watt bulbs pumped out yellowish light that was promptly absorbed in the dark corners. There was a scattering of dusty, mismatched furniture, but the place looked lived in and comfortable. A brick fireplace on the far wall was topped with a granite mantelpiece, flanked by bookshelves that were populated by a few dusty volumes, several yellow stacks of National Geographic. “Nice place,” Moon said.

  Henry Buford looked around curiously, as if seeing this inner space for the first time. “Some years ago, this was the BoxCar’s main ranch house. But when the senator bought up the spread, I guess he wanted something a dang sight more grand. So Patch built himself that big house down in the valley. I’m glad he did—this is the better place and I have it all to myself.”

  Hanging over the fireplace was a grainy, enlarged photographic print of a man who looked exactly like Henry Buford. The likeness was flanked by a pair of pewter candlesticks on the mantelpiece, producing the effect of a shrine. Except that there were no tapers in the candlesticks.

  The ranch manager noticed the Ute’s gaze hanging on the picture. “That’s my brother. As you might’ve guessed, we’re twins.” He took a long, wistful look at the framed image, then removed a wedge-shaped piece of stone from the mantel. “Here’s something you might find interesting.”

  The Ute held the grooved stone axe head in his hand. The polished surface was mottled with black-and-white spots the size of dimes. “This is a fine artifact—and an unusual type of porphyry. And I’d lay odds it was found east of the Mississippi.”

  Buford nodded. “Way back when, my old man was a farm kid in southern Indiana. He used to find arrowheads and stuff. He picked this item up in a cornfield. Funny—this is the only thing of Dad’s I have.”

  Moon passed the precious object back to the owner.

  The ranch manager placed the artifact back on the mantel. “I got hot stew in the pot, cold brew in the icebox.”

  “Stew sounds just fine.” And it smelled good. “I’ll have coffee if you have some, or water.”

  Buford grinned, cocked an eyebrow. “What’s this, Charlie—you a member of the Temperance League?”

  “I’m an alcoholic.”

  Buford’s white face reddened. “I’ll brew us up some coffee.”

  “Go right ahead and enjoy your beer. Won’t bother me a smidgen to watch you drink it.”

  “No way. You fall off the wagon and start prowling seedy taverns, sleeping in alleys—I don’t want it on my conscience.”

  Charlie Moon enjoyed the evening, as did his host. The men ate hearty beef stew, drank strong coffee, listened to an archaic vacuum-tube radio, laughed at dumb jokes. They talked about many things. The cattle business. The weather. Politics. Pickup trucks. Gasoline versus diesel engines. Dogs. And, of course, women and all their mysterious ways.

  A thousand words after the sun had gone down, Moon pushed his coffee cup aside. “Henry, I appreciate your hospitality. But I got to be going home.”

  The ranch manager stretched his long legs, propped the scuffed heels of his boots on a straight-backed chair. “I don’t believe it—you gonna leave without asking me any questions?”

  The tribal investigator offered his host an innocent look. “Questions—about what?”

  Buford grinned. “You’re a Ute cop. Billy was a Ute. Regular cops still haven’t found out who canceled his ticket, and crippled Patch. So you’re at the BoxCar to turn over some rocks, see what crawls out. So go ahead—see what you can pry outta me.”

  “Okay. If it’ll make you feel better.” The tribal investigator rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers into a massive fist. “What kind of people did Billy hang out with?”

  Buford shook his head. “So you’ve heard about that.”

  Moon waited.

  “Rumor was, some of your tribesman’s buddies was dabbling in the drug business—and I don’t mean they owned a piece of the Rexall Pharmacy down on Main Street.”

  “Aside from alcohol, the autopsy didn’t show anything unusual in Billy’s system.”

  “Maybe that’s because he thought liquor was quicker.”

  “Then he wasn’t a user?”

  “Not that I know of. But talk was, he did some peddling. Small stuff.”

  “With talk like that going around, how’d he keep his job with the senator?”

  “Ol’ Patch, he liked his Indian driver. And nobody tells a rich man what he don’t want to hear.” Buford’s eyes narrowed. “But I’ll tell you straight—if it had been up to me, I’d of fired Billy’s ass a long time ago.”

  “I wish you had.”

  “Me, too. My hindsight is twenty-twenty.” An amused expression crinkled over the ranch manager’s leathery face. “So what else would you like to know?”

  “Can’t think of a single thing to ask you.”

  Buford chuckled. “And me just aching to talk my fool head off.”

  “Well, I’d hate for word to get out that I didn’t at least try to do my job. Why don’t you tell me about some of the other folks at the BoxCar.”

  “There ain’t that many of us—we happy few.”

  “Let’s start with the old cowboy who guards the gate.”

  Buford rubbed at a stiff bristle of two-day-old beard. “Nothing much to tell. Old Ned’s another drinker, but he’s harmless enough.”

  “How about the senator’s nephew—he harmless enough?”

  “Allan?” The BoxCar manager thought about it. “He’s pretty much your average young fella. Wants to make something of himself, but can’t manage to keep his attention focused on anything long enough to see it through. Allan has attended a half dozen universities, graduated from nary a one. He hangs out with all kinds of weirdos, supports any political cause that’s liable to embarrass the senator, travels around the
world to exotic places, tinkers with computers and electronic gadgets. His latest ambition is to qualify as a skilled mechanic—and he shows some promise. You seen his fire-engine-red hog?”

  Moon nodded. “Passed me on the road.”

  “Going pretty fast, was he?”

  “Carrying the mail.”

  “Someday he’ll wrap that fancy toy around a tree. But Allan can take that machine apart blindfolded, put it back together, and it still runs.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yeah, he’s got a talent for stuff like that. Lately, the little twerp’s been pestering me for work to do around the BoxCar. Now and then, I let him help me with a job—but only when I’m looking over his shoulder.”

  “He live in the BoxCar headquarters?”

  “Sure, Allan’s got an apartment in the big house. But when the kid’s on the ranch—which is maybe half the time—he spends most of his hours over at the old line shack.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Buford jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “East side of the property, bottom of the Notch. It’s a smelly dump, which makes the senator pretty unhappy.”

  Moon smiled at memories of his own youth. Which is probably Pearson’s main reason for hanging out there. “What does he do over there all by himself?”

  “Don’t know for certain; contemplates his belly button, I guess.” Henry Buford looked out a darkened window toward the Misery Range. “I should probably go over to the line shack from time to time and check up on the place, but I don’t. For one thing, Allan’s not an employee—he’s what’s left of the senator’s family. For another, he likes his privacy.” Buford looked around his kitchen. “I guess that’s the one thing him and me got in common.”

  “Sounds like you don’t like the young man.”

  “Men, I either like or I don’t. Allan’s a pissant. He never takes a bath, he don’t eat meat, and he hates dogs.” The ranch manager glanced at his sleeping hound. “Especially ol’ Grape-Eye here.”

  Moon pushed the probe deeper. “I understand Pearson’s an orphan.”