Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.” Moon nodded toward the airstrip. “Might as well head back to your airplane.”

  Yancey turned toward the techs, as if to issue such an order.

  Newman made a face. “I’m tired of flying.” And I’m tired of trying to work with fashion-plate jerks who don’t know what the job is before they fly halfway across the country. “If you don’t mind, Charlie, I’ll be your guest till I can get someone to come and pick me up.”

  “No need for that. I’ll singe a couple slabs of steak and fry a half dozen eggs. After we’ve had our breakfast, I’ll be glad to run you down to Durango.”

  Michael Yancey realized that he had made a gamble and lost. But as was his habit, he pushed this knowledge so far into the bottom of his unconscious as to be oblivious to the truth. He assured himself that he was a sane, reasonable man who had the misfortune to be surrounded by bumbling incompetents. This was merely a sorry situation that needed expert managing. The Indian seemed easygoing, but he was stubborn as a mule. Such rustics must be manipulated with skill and cunning. He turned to face the tall Ute. “As you said, Mr. Moon, this is merely a misunderstanding. A bureaucratic mix-up. A problem in communications.” Now a touch of flattery. “As fellow professionals, it is up to us to find a way to work around it. Here’s how I see it. Because you are an official member of the senator’s security staff, I propose that you escort us into the house.”

  Moon responded with a thoughtful nod. “Yeah. That sounds like a workable idea.”

  Newman rolled his eyes.

  Agent Yancey managed not to notice this hint of insubordination. “You must realize, of course, that some of our instrumentation and investigative techniques are quite sensitive.”

  “No problem,” Moon said. “I promise not to look at any of your dials and meters.”

  Having regained control of a deteriorating situation, Yancey beamed a fatherly smile at the Ute. “Here’s how we’ll play it. You take us in, but address any remarks only to Special Agent Newman. Do not mention him by name—the bad guys may be listening. Talk about ranching. The weather. Baseball. Anything except what we are here for. Do you understand?”

  Moon nodded. He thinks I’m an idiot.

  Yancey continued: “The techs and I will maintain a strict silence while we’re inside. When our work is completed, we will leave by the front entrance. You and Agent Newman will follow immediately.” He stared intently at the silent man. “You got that?”

  Moon appeared to be expending a great effort to concentrate on the instructions. “Well…I think so.” He glanced at Newman with a hopeful expression. “If I forget anything, I’ll ask Stan what to do. Not out loud, of course—I’ll whisper to him.”

  This arrow barbed with sarcasm sailed past Yancey without pricking his skin. “Right. Agent Newman knows the drill. Just follow his lead.”

  After a preliminary sweep of the BoxCar headquarters, the techs got down to the serious business of checking the conference room, that inner sanctum where the senator presided over confidential gatherings. Charlie Moon stood just outside with Stanley Newman, watching the coveralled pair—supervised by gestures and handwritten notes from Agent Yancey. Light fixtures and electrical receptacles were disassembled. Panels were unscrewed from a television set, a computer, a microwave oven. Pictures and certificates were removed from frames. And, of course, the telephones were thoroughly examined. Despite his lighthearted promise to take no notice of the gadgetry, the Ute was fascinated by one of the portable instruments. A surreptitious glance at the front panel revealed that the device was a Hallmark 101 Spectrum Analyzer, one-hundred kHz to ten GHz. There was a long, narrow black screen upon which a bright green trace crawled like a skinny worm slithering across a field of invisible pebbles. At a warning look from Agent Yancey, the Ute averted his eyes from the instrument.

  Newman followed Moon into the spacious BoxCar headquarters kitchen, where the “designated escort” found a can of Maxwell House and a pot. While the coffee perked, the tribal investigator searched a vast cupboard until he discovered a box of animal cookies.

  The men retired to the dining room, seated themselves at an immaculate mahogany table.

  “Well,” Moon said to the wall, “I hear that beef prices are up seven cents a pound.”

  Newman, who was pouring cream into his coffee, grunted.

  The Ute rancher continued his monologue. “Fine weather we’ve been having.”

  The FBI agent scowled at his cup.

  Moon passed the cookie box across the table. “I figure this’ll be a seriously cold winter. And a long one.” He smiled at his comrade. “That’s the kind we always have.”

  This brought no response from the grumpy fed.

  “Hey, how about them Cubs?”

  Newman frowned at the animal cookie. “He’s a real horse’s ass.”

  Moon assumed a quizzical expression. “To whom do you refer?”

  “You know damn well.” He stuck his paw into the cookie box, scooped out a herd of herbivores.

  “Well, Archibald, seeing as there are only two of us here—all alone in the house—I don’t see why you shouldn’t say his name out loud.”

  Newman stuffed a dozen animal pastries into his mouth. “Mawk Hawrses Awss Gbwancy.”

  “Yes,” Moon said. “I hear what you’re saying.”

  TWO POTS of coffee later, when the animal cookies had been decimated by the pair of voracious carnivores, Agent Yancey showed his aristocratic face at the dining room archway. Stared for a moment at the coffee cups, then at the cookie box—with a yearning, hungry look.

  As the man did not officially exist, Charlie Moon pointedly ignored him.

  Stanley Newman did likewise.

  “Hssst!”

  The Ute cocked his ear. “Archibald, did you hear something?”

  “Yeah,” Newman said with a glance toward the kitchen. “Must’ve been the teapot.”

  Yancey was indeed coming to a boil. He jerked his head in a gesture that made it clear the party was over.

  Outside, Special Agent Mike Yancey assumed his rightful place. He considered dressing Agent Newman down for unprofessional conduct, thought better of it. The man from New Jersey looked to be highly annoyed—even a bit dangerous. Best leave the feisty little bastard alone. He might go postal on me. A confidential written evaluation of his behavior would be the more prudent course of action. The senior agent addressed the Ute. “I appreciate your cooperation with our investigation.”

  “You’re welcome. So what did you find?”

  “You’ll have to wait for an official report.”

  “Me, I don’t mind waiting till kingdom come.” Moon smiled. “But Patch Davidson, he’s an impatient sort of fellow.”

  Michael Yancey weighed his options. “You may inform the senator that we have uncovered no evidence of electronic listening devices in his home.” The senior agent turned his back on the tribal investigator, stalked away toward the Suburban.

  Moon approached the pair of technicians, neither of whom had uttered a word since their arrival at the airstrip. “You found nothing at all?”

  The techs looked toward Yancey’s back.

  The tribal investigator pressed on. “I appreciate Agent Yancey’s helpful statement. It’s always nice to know what the boss thinks. But Senator Davidson is the sort of man who’ll want to hear from the people actually doing the work. So what do you say—you find a trace of anything?”

  The older technician, a skinny man, shrugged. The plump blond woman licked at thin lips, then said, “We found no evidence of surreptitious listening devices.”

  “That’s what Agent Yancey already told me. So how sure are you that the senator’s house isn’t bugged?”

  She looked the tall man straight in the eye. “Absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. Particularly when it comes to detecting hidden electronic devices.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  THE ENTREPRENEUR

  CHARLIE MOON NAVIGAT
ED HIS RECENTLY REPAIRED PICKUP ALONG Staples Street past a series of business establishments separated by vacant, weed-choked lots. The tribal investigator parked the F-150 in front of a shotgun structure that was squeezed between Fagan’s Diesel Engine Repair and Emogene’s Florist. The cinder block building, gray and naked under a film of peeling blue paint, was partially concealed by a bowed-over elm whose dead leaves rattled in the dry breeze. He read the words painted on the display window.

  PEPPER’S MOBILITY CENTER

  Authorized GroundHog Dealer

  Bruno Lifts • Carriers

  Parts • Sales • Service

  In-Home Service Our Specialty

  ALL MAJOR CREDIT CARDS ACCEPTED

  On a dusty display stage behind the window, there were fold-up wheelchairs, adjustable aluminum crutches, stainless steel leg braces, fiber-glass neck immobilizers, and a host of other products designed to enable the disabled. The centerpiece was a glistening Electric GroundHog. Aside from the color—Sunrise Red—this model appeared to be identical to the senator’s scooter.

  On the door of the business establishment, there was a small, hand-lettered sign.

  Sales Representatives Welcome by Appointment Only

  Disobeyers of This Dictum Will Be Dismembered

  Moon pushed the door open, heard an electric bell jangle somewhere in the rear of the store. He waited. Presently, the Ute’s patience was rewarded.

  A person opened a door marked SHOP EMPLOYEES ONLY and emerged from the semidarkness. The figure—clad in khaki shirt and pants and shod in polished black leather boots—leaned on a twisted hickory cane. The brown hair was clipped short, the shoulders broad and muscular, the legs thin and spindly—one grotesquely twisted. A label above a shirt pocket identified the inhabitant of the garment as one BOBBIE PEPPER.

  Charlie Moon removed his hat. “Hi. You must be the boss.”

  The voice was feminine. “I’m the owner. I’m usually here just two days a week, but my manager’s out with a kidney stone.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Ms. Pepper—”

  “Professor Pepper, if you please.” She tossed her head back and glared at him. “I teach freshman chemistry at Rocky Mountain Polytechnic.”

  He took a step backward. “No kidding—you’re the famous Dr. Pepper?”

  She groaned. “I’ve only heard that one about a million times.”

  “Sorry, couldn’t help myself.” He flashed a smile. “But I want you to know that I have a great respect for our nation’s educators.”

  “Educator—that’s a laugh.” She snorted. “My function is that of gatekeeper. I’m charged with preventing the bone lazy and mentally challenged from cluttering the hallowed halls of academia. Every single one of those snotty-nosed little sods either makes the grade in my class or it’s ‘Hit the road Jack.’” The grin turned cheerfully malicious. “But despite my best efforts, somewhat more than half of the mush-heads manage to survive.”

  “It is always gratifying to meet a whip-cracker who enjoys her work.”

  She looked the tall man up and down. “You seem sound of limb. What brings such a robust specimen to a business enterprise that caters to the maimed and crippled?”

  He was about to respond when she cut him off.

  “You must be shopping for somebody else.” She approached in a painful hip-wrenching gait.

  “I’m not exactly a customer.”

  The proprietor scowled. “Well, if you’re exactly a peddler, I do hope you’ll stay for a late lunch. I had me a smart-ass insurance salesman for breakfast this morning, and I have not had time to digest his bones and toenails.”

  “A free meal is hard to turn down, but time is short and I’ve got other people to annoy before the sun sets.” Moon looked around the store. Boxes of Ace bandages and digital blood-pressure monitors were stacked on an unpainted pine shelf.

  The embittered woman followed his gaze with an air of utter despair. “Yes, it’s a sure-enough dump. Two years come September—right after the previous owner got his ticket punched—I picked this joint up for two bits. Which was about twenty-four cents too much.” She shot him an annoyed look. “Who’n hell are you?”

  He presented his tribal ID.

  The professor squinted at the photograph on the laminated card. “An Indian cop.” She made a snorting sound. “Am I supposed to guess why you’re here?”

  “One of my tribesman has been killed.”

  “Sad news. But what does it have to do with the price of boiled eggs?”

  “Well—”

  “If one of your braves got himself snuffed, why aren’t you sniffing around on the reservation for the culprit?”

  Moon seemed embarrassed by this question. “We already got way too many Utes in our lockup. So the tribal chairman, he told me to pin this murder on a white.”

  “I have not killed me an Indian for a month of Sundays.” A tic of a smile jerked at the edge of her lip. “But right at the moment, I am feeling this strong urge to correct that lapse.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  Bobbie Pepper eased herself down on a wooden bench, absently tapped the cane against a steel brace under her pant leg. “What’s on your mind, beanpole—you really here about some dead Indian?”

  “Truth is, I’m interested in that fancy electric scooter in your window.”

  She looked toward the display. “You thinking about buying a GroundHog?”

  “It has crossed my mind.”

  “Who’s the machine for?”

  “Elderly friend.”

  “I could get you a less expensive unit that’ll work just as well.”

  “Nope.” The Ute set his jaw. “Got my heart set on a GroundHog.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s the best electric scooter on the market.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The power of advertising. And the fact that Senator Davidson bought one.”

  “Well, of course he did,” she snapped. “I sold it to him. What I don’t understand is why you’d want to squander your money. The G-H is overpriced and it has too damn many useless gadgets. On top of that, it’s not made in the good old U.S. of A.”

  Moon raised his hands protectively. “Whoa, now—ease up! This red-hot sales pitch is too much for a simple country boy. First thing I know, you’ll have sold me three or four GroundHogs.”

  Big smart aleck. She scratched at a wasted leg. “Don’t ever say I didn’t try to save you some cash money.”

  “Sign on the window says in-home servicing is your specialty.”

  “It is highly gratifying to know you can read.”

  This is a sure-enough mean woman. “Would the senator have his scooter brought here for a tune-up—or would you send someone out to the BoxCar?”

  “Most of the repairs are done here. On those occasions when it is not convenient for the customer to return a malfunctioning product to our shop, my manager will go to the client’s home and do the repairs. I also make a few service calls myself—for special customers.” She smiled, as if at a private joke, then cocked the close-cropped head. “What else do you want to know?”

  Moon stared past the rough-hewn woman at the window display. “I’d like to know why the senator purchased that particular make and model. What are the special features. How much it cost him. What does the warranty cover. How many of these things do you sell in a year. And just about anything else you can tell me about the GroundHog.”

  “What is it, you big totem pole—d’you think I’ve got nothing better to do than sit around all day and spill my guts to flippant Indian coppers?”

  He put the black Stetson on his head. “Just say good-bye and I’ll be gone.”

  She sighed. “Sit down. This’ll take me a while, and looking up at you makes my neck ache.”

  He seated himself beside Professor Pepper.

  The lonely woman was pleased to have such interesting company. As the minutes drifted by, she talked and talked and talked.

>   The tribal investigator listened. And considered. Weighed this unlikely possibility against that undeniable fact. Thought maybe he was onto something.

  CHARLIE MOON closed the door of Pepper’s Mobility Center behind him, buttoned his jacket against the stiff breeze that was flinging sand and trash along the narrow street. Holding onto the brim of his hat, he opened the F-150’s door, slipped behind the brand-new steering wheel. The cab of his old pickup was not quite as empty as when he’d left it.

  This time the uninvited occupant was not a rattlesnake.

  But the tough-looking fellow wore a sour scowl under his nose and a shoulder holster under his left armpit. Snuggled in the leather receptacle was a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver that was not an ornament.

  The Ute did not start the engine. “I should’ve locked the doors.”

  A dry chuckle. “That wouldn’t have kept me out.”

  “How’d you know I was in the neighborhood?”

  “It’s my business to know.”

  “If you wanted to see me, you could’ve come inside the store.”

  “No way.” The chief of police aimed a double-barreled high-caliber glare at the business establishment. “Every time I bump into Professor Pepper, she pisses all over me about how GCPD has never arrested the hit-and-run that crippled her up. Hell, Charlie, it happened way before my time.”

  “Guess that’d be a hard thing for her to forget.”

  “The department hasn’t forgot about it either—it’s still an open case. But enough about ancient history, let’s get to the right now. What’re you doing here?”

  “Checking out the merchandise.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Well, you know how it goes. You do something that you know is right. But later on, you feel kinda bad about it. Like you should make amends.”

  “Charlie, what on earth are you talking about?”

  “A few days after I rip Eddie Knox’s good leg off at the hip, I’ll probably start feeling a little bit sorry for him. Next thing you know, I’ll want to do something to make amends. Like buy him a wheelchair.”