Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  “So what do you want?”

  “I’m going over to Rio Hondo. See if there’s any sign of Miss Brewster.”

  “Knox and Slocum already checked it out.” The chief of police rubbed at his forehead. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  Knox and Slocum together couldn’t find a wildcat in a rain barrel. “I’d like to have a look for myself.”

  “Well, go right ahead—you don’t need my permission.”

  “Thought maybe you’d want to go along with me.”

  Parris groaned. “What time is it?”

  Moon told him.

  “Five o’clock in the morning?” The chief of police sat up on the edge of the bed, leaned to squint at the clock. “It’s four-fifty-eight.”

  “So call me liar for two minutes.”

  Parris stood up, felt a dull pain at the small of his back. Hope it’s not another kidney stone.

  “Hey, pardner—you still there?”

  The sleepy man grunted. “When’re you heading out to Arroyo Hondo?”

  “About forty-five minutes.”

  Scott Parris closed his eyes, called up today’s schedule. “I got a budget meeting with the mayor at nine A. M. sharp. Sorry. I’d lots rather go on a tramp in the woods.”

  “Budget meeting?” Moon laughed. “You’d rather eat a live porcupine, quills and all.”

  “Right-o. But the city’s business has to get done. Some of us have to suffer so civilized society can progress.”

  “Glad it’s you and not me, pardner.”

  “Charlie, you find anything interesting up there, beep me.”

  “Will do.”

  Chapter Thirty

  ARROYO HONDO

  CHARLIE MOON WASHED THE BREAKFAST DISHES, SLIPPED INTO A fleece-lined denim jacket, popped the battered John B. Stetson on his head, opened the front door onto the redwood-plank porch. The sun behind the house was three discs high. The rancher sniffed at the crisp morning air. That’s better than hot coffee.

  A large something nudged against his leg.

  Moon looked down to see the homely hound.

  Sidewinder yawned, exposing a mouthful of wicked-looking yellow teeth.

  “Mornin’, pal. Want to go for a ride?”

  The dog responded with something halfway between a snort and a growl.

  “I thought so.”

  THE ANIMAL, having slept most of the way, suddenly lurched up from the floorboard. Sidewinder got onto the pickup seat, placed large paws on the dashboard. He stared through the sandblasted F-150 windshield, barked once. Then began whining.

  Moon smiled at the beast. How does he know where we’re going? The Forest Road 985 exit was a hundred yards ahead. The narrow lane would wind through several miles of evergreen forest before terminating at what little remained of the long-deserted Arroyo Hondo mining settlement. The Ute slowed, made the turn onto the dirt road.

  The hound’s long tongue draped over his teeth. Occasionally, Sidewinder would bark—as if to urge the Ute to drive faster.

  Moon was lost in his thoughts. This was most likely a fool’s errand. But Wilma Brewster—if the redhead who’d spoken to Aunt Daisy was Jane Brewster’s shy daughter—had hinted that he might find her at the ghost town. He exited the thickest part of the forest, headed down the side of a slope. Moon shifted to low gear, bumped the F-150 along the rutted road. Spruce and ponderosa were gradually replaced by clumps of juniper and piñon. After passing along a sandy streambed, he encountered an uphill grade. The pickup was heading more or less northward, toward the crest of a ridge above the deep arroyo that had provided the remote silver-mining settlement with a name.

  When he finally topped the basalt-strewn ridge, the yellow tide of midmorning light was washing over the high plains. The tribal investigator and his dog got out of the Ford pickup. Aside from the clicking sound of the exhaust system cooling, the silence in this remote place was complete. An intense, bone-numbing cold remained from the departed night. He pushed his fists into the fleece-lined pockets of the jacket, swept his gaze over the crumbled ghost town. Remains of rotting shacks dotted the ridge. Not one had a complete roof, but sheets of tin were scattered about like dead leaves in a windy autumn. The depths of the arroyo were honeycombed with crumbling mine shafts. A well-crafted Forest Service sign warned hikers to stay away from these death traps.

  The Ute examined the dirt road for any sign of recent visitors. There were a number of tire tracks on the lane. Judging from the street-tread, the most recent were probably left by GCPD police officers Eddie Knox and Piggy Slocum.

  Moon took a deep breath and called out. “Helloooo.”

  An eerie echo called back, like the sound of a wolf howling. He bellowed again. “Heeey…anybody here?”

  The crisp echo had a mocking tone.

  Because it seemed necessary to do something after coming all this way, Moon inspected the wreckage of a dozen mining shacks. There was little to be seen except the pathetic artifacts left behind by those who had been dead for many decades. Broken fruit jars. A twisted boot sole. A rusting Model-T truck chassis. The tribal investigator looked into several crumbling mining shafts. He walked around the perimeter of the ghost town for any sign of a camp. Recently discarded trash. A fire pit.

  For hours, he searched.

  Nothing.

  The truth gradually became apparent. If Wilma Brewster has ever been in this particular Arroyo Hondo, she’s long gone. He made a mental note to ask Scott Parris whether the New Mexico State Police had turned up anything in the Arroyo Hondo down by Taos. Maybe Wilma was holed up there with a boyfriend. He picked up a piece of basalt, sent it sailing into the deep arroyo. Like his investigation, it took a long time hitting bottom.

  The tribal investigator took a last look at the long-deserted community. It was hard not to feel the fool. A man was only allotted so much time in Middle World. And time was far too precious a commodity to waste on improbable hunches that bubbled up out of dreams. And an old woman’s tale about a redheaded gal who wants to talk to me but won’t.

  The Ute was suddenly aware that he was alone. Where’s that dog? He called for the animal.

  Sidewinder barked an answer—or was it a summons?

  Sounds like he’s down in the hollow. The saddle in the ridge was filled with scrub oak and lodgepole pine. There were a few towering ponderosas. Moon called again.

  The response was a long, baying howl.

  He must’ve treed something. The Ute made his way down the grade.

  Sidewinder was stretched out by a large, split ponderosa log. The ancient tree had simply lived out its time, rotted away, taken one too many lightning strikes, fallen to earth.

  Moon grinned at the eccentric hound. “What is it—you too lazy to walk?”

  The homely canine stared at the human with deep, mournful eyes.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to carry you back to the truck.”

  Sidewinder got up, raked a paw over the place where he had made a temporary bed.

  The tribal investigator felt a coldness ripple along his spine. He knelt by the animal. Reached out to see what the hound had unearthed. Wisps of hair. Red hair.

  AS HE always had during hard times, Scott Parris stood beside his Ute friend.

  Charlie Moon had withdrawn well away from the gaggle of police officers who gawked while Dr. Simpson’s assistants used small pointed trowels and stiff paintbrushes to uncover the human remains.

  The elderly ME grunted painfully as he pushed himself upright. He paused to brush pine needles off the knees of expensive gray trousers, then walked stiffly toward the pair of lawman.

  Parris asked the question. “What have we got?”

  “What we have got is a decomposed body.” Walter Simpson glanced back at the small excavation. “Female Caucasian. Red hair. Slender build.”

  The chief of police was annoyed at having to ask. “Any idea how she died?”

  “Looks like strangulation. There’s a loop of ten-gauge copper wire around her neck.” />
  The Ute didn’t want to know. But he heard the words coming out of his mouth. “How long has she been here?”

  The ME shrugged. “Later on, I’ll be able to tell you more precisely, but it’ll be a matter of several months.”

  Scott Parris glanced at the Ute’s stony face, then spoke to Dr. Simpson. “Wilma Brewster fits the general description. She was reported missing late last December.”

  The pathologist rubbed at white stubble on his chin. “The condition of the remains is consistent with that time frame.” He frowned at the tall Ute. “How’d you find her?”

  “I didn’t.” Moon nodded to indicate the hound.

  Sidewinder was watching the evolving excavation with considerable interest.

  The curious ME pressed on. “What on earth brought you out here?”

  The tribal investigator hesitated. “A tip.”

  Simpson glared at the taciturn Indian. “Tip from who?”

  Moon held his silence.

  Scott Parris gave Simpson a look that said, Back off.

  The inquisitive ME shrugged. “Well, excuse me.” He marched off to bark orders at his assistants, who were gingerly removing a red shoe from the shallow grave.

  Parris chewed on an oak twig. “So maybe it ain’t Wilma Brewster.”

  Moon shook his head. “It’s her.”

  “If this corpse is Miss Brewster—and she’s been dead since December—how could she have talked to your aunt less than a month ago?”

  Moon’s expression made it clear that he did not care to discuss the subject.

  Parris understood. “Oh—yeah.” Talking to ghosts was part and parcel of Daisy Perika’s trade. His eyes met Moon’s. “You don’t think…”

  “No, I don’t. And neither do you.”

  The chief of police shrugged. “It was just a thought.”

  A new pair of headlights appeared at the edge of the clearing. It was a small, battered Honda. The driver, an elderly heavyset man, went around to the opposite side of the automobile to open the door for his passenger, but the woman was already getting out. She pulled a tattered woolen coat over her shoulders, lifted the yellow tape, and marched past a state police officer who reached out to stop the intruder. Scott Parris made a gesture; the officer gave way.

  The chief of the Granite Creek Police Department blocked her view of the excavation, tipped his felt hat. “Hello, Mrs. Brewster.”

  Jane Brewster tried to look past the broad-shouldered man. “When I heard, I had to come see for myself.”

  “Look, it’s no good—”

  The woman was thin-lipped with determination. “Is it my Wilma?”

  Parris looked over her head. “We don’t have a positive ID yet.”

  “Tell me what you do have.”

  The lawman sighed. “Caucasian. Doc Simpson says it’s a woman. Probably a young woman.”

  She said the words in a whisper. “What color’s her hair?”

  The lawman looked at the sky. The clouds were ugly. Life was ugly. “Red. I’m sorry, Mrs. Brewster.”

  She nodded to no one in particular. “I knew it’d be my Wilma.” She turned away, began to heave with great, gasping sobs. “My God. My daughter’s dead—and I’m so dirt-poor I don’t even have money to bury her proper.”

  “Ma’am.”

  She looked up to see the tall Ute.

  He put an arm around her shoulders. “You don’t have to worry about burial.”

  She dabbed at red, swollen eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a fine spot on the Columbine, where you can see for miles and miles in every direction. We call it Pine Knob. If you want, we’ll put her there.”

  She stared at this man she had met only once. “That would be very kind of you.” Jane Brewster reached out to touch his hand, then hurried back to the small automobile.

  The policemen watched the taillights diminish into tiny red points. In less than a minute, the night had swallowed them up.

  Parris rubbed at tired eyes. “It’s times like this I hate my job.”

  “I got to take my dog home.” Charlie Moon headed back to the pickup. Sidewinder trotted along at his heels.

  Darkness followed closely behind.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  THE GATHERING

  TO THE EXTENT THAT IT WAS HUMANLY POSSIBLE FOR A BUSY PARISH priest, Father Raes Delfino’s life was well organized. And according to his schedule, it was time to visit Daisy Perika. The pastor of St. Ignatius Catholic Church approached this particular duty with an unsettling mixture of apprehension and anticipation. This was partially because the man, who should have been impartial, had a terrible secret hidden in his heart. Among the whole tribe of Utes, Daisy Perika was his favorite. This despite the fact that the elder was often a sharp thorn in his side. The old woman was mischievously irreverent and wholly unpredictable, but this volatile combination provided a welcome seasoning to the cleric’s bland diet.

  Upon arriving at Daisy’s remote trailer home, Father Raes had been gratified to see Charlie Moon’s pickup parked under the shade of a juniper. He received a hearty handshake from the amiable Ute, a derisive snort from the tribal elder, who suggested that the priest must have taken a wrong turn off Route 151. There was no bingo game in these parts, nor was there any cash for his long-handled offering plate. In return for these poisonous barbs, Daisy received the gentle man’s blessing—which galled her—and a look of stern disapproval from her nephew—which had no effect whatever. These obligatory preliminaries completed, the trio of quite remarkable human beings enjoyed a tasty breakfast of bacon and eggs, which was salted by talk of reservation politics, upcoming events at St. Ignatius, the desperate need for rain.

  When Daisy got up to brew fresh coffee, the tribal investigator removed a photograph from his shirt pocket. Knowing that consulting the priest first would arouse his aunt’s ire and pique her curiosity, he pushed the likeness across the table to Father Raes. “She look familiar?”

  He studied the image. The pale, redheaded woman stared back at him, as if pleading for recognition. He furrowed his brow at the photo, then at Moon. “She does look vaguely familiar, but beyond that I really can’t say.”

  Moon waited for his aunt’s reaction.

  Having restarted the coffeepot, Daisy untied her apron. Pretending to have taken no notice of the conversation between her nephew and the priest, she made it her business to pass behind Father Raes. And look over his shoulder at the photograph.

  Charlie Moon watched the old woman’s wooden expression for the least hint of recognition. Hoped there would be none.

  Daisy had only intended to make a quick glance. But she could not pull her gaze from the image of the young woman she had seen first at the Wal-Mart, then across the street from Angel’s Café. This was the very same person that Louise Marie LaForte could not see in broad daylight. Unaware that she had been holding her breath, the tribal elder felt her vision blur. She exhaled carbon dioxide, drew in a fresh supply of oxygen.

  Moon had seen the truth glinting in the old woman’s eyes, but felt compelled to ask. “Somebody you know?”

  Hesitant to lie in the priest’s presence, Daisy substituted a shrug and an evasion. “Hard to say—these matukach all look pretty much alike.”

  The matukach priest smiled.

  Moon pressed. “Then you’ve never seen this woman?”

  “Who knows,” the elder said. “It’s a fuzzy picture.”

  “Take a closer look.” The tribal investigator offered his aunt the photograph.

  Daisy backed away, made an urgent dismissive gesture.

  Moon withdrew the picture. And his question. The Ute elder would not touch the likeness of a person recently dead. Especially if the death had been violent. But how does she know?

  Daisy closed her eyes. God protect us from ghosts and witches and all kinds of evil.

  Immediately, the priest heard a light tapping. He waited for Daisy to open the trailer door, then realized that neither the old woman
or her nephew had shown any sign of hearing the sound. Maybe I imagined it. But there it was again—a louder knocking. He looked again to the Utes; surely they had heard it this time. Charlie Moon was putting the photograph of the dead woman into his pocket; the old woman had her eyes closed.

  A third time: Bang—bang—bang!

  Father Raes could see the flimsy door vibrate under the urgent blows.

  Though she did not hear the knocking, the shaman sensed the presence—and felt a chill. It must be the pitukupf. Of course, the dwarf knew the priest was in her home—and had come to embarrass her! The little man, once such a shy recluse in his badger hole, had become more bold with the passing years. Not so very long ago, he had shown up in church during Sunday morning Mass, sitting right there in the pew beside her! The old woman fixed her gaze on the trailer door, muttered in the Ute dialect: “Pága-kwáy!”

  Charlie Moon frowned at his aunt. Who is she telling to go away?

  Daisy Perika eyeballed her nephew a stern warning. Don’t ask—you don’t want to know.

  The knocking ceased. Father Raes felt a rush of relief, but this was mixed with an inexplicable sense of loss. And loneliness. I should have opened the door myself.

  Moon dismissed the incident from his mind. Aunt Daisy had always been a bit peculiar, and age had only sharpened her eccentricities. The tall man got up from the kitchen table, leaned to peer through the small window. Three Sisters Mesa loomed massively over the mouth of Cañon del Espiritu. A cloud-bonnet had lodged itself on the head of the tallest of the legendary Pueblo sisters who, ages ago, had ascended to the heights to escape an Apache raiding party. In response to an urgent prayer for deliverance, the frightened women had been turned to stone by a stroke of lightning. Or so it was said.

  Daisy felt the need to say something. “You men want some more coffee?”

  Father Raes declined with his usual grace. The old woman’s brew was strong enough to etch the enamel off a camel’s teeth.