Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  The response was barely above a whisper. “I really don’t want to do this.” The short barrel of the shiny revolver wavered ever so slightly.

  “Of course you don’t,” Buford said. “But you don’t have any choice—because I know what you’ve been up to. And you know what I intend to do about it.”

  The visitor went glassy-eyed.

  Buford’s grin was a merry one, as if this was a delightful game. “So what’re you gonna do—stare me to death?” He shook his head wearily. “Ah, hell—let’s get this sorry business done with.”

  This is like a terrible dream. The unwelcome guest pulled the trigger, heard the explosive discharge, felt the jerking recoil of the pistol grip—saw the fluffy hole blossom in the ranch manager’s plaid shirt. It had all happened so very quickly, like a flash of summer lightning. The playful smirk was still on Henry Buford’s face.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  STRIKE THREE

  CHARLIE MOON WAS SEATED ACROSS THE GOVERNMENT-ISSUE DESK from Sam Parker, special agent in charge of the FBI’s Denver field office. The tribal investigator waited for the matukach cop to have his say.

  On a dirty sill outside the third-floor window, a fat pigeon made short, jerky steps, occasionally pausing to cock a cherry-red eye at the federal lawman and his Ute visitor. On the street below, an endless chain of automobiles and trucks and buses rumbled by.

  Parker—oblivious to feathered creatures and the racket of internal combustion engines—leafed through a report that was neatly bound in a blue plastic cover. He cleared his throat. “Charlie, this is a summary of the findings on Senator Davidson’s four-wheel-drive scooter.” The SAC glanced at his guest. “Here’s the long and short of it. There wasn’t anything in the senator’s Electric GroundHog that didn’t belong there.”

  The amiable Ute felt his blood pressure rising. “Let’s make sure I got this right—I drove all the way to Denver just to hear that your experts didn’t find anything?”

  “I thought we should have a heart-to-heart conversation.” The wide, toothy mouth smiled at him. “Don’t take this as a criticism, Charlie. But you seem a wee bit edgy.”

  “Don’t take this as a criticism, Sam—but a fifty-cent phone call would’ve saved me a long, tiresome drive over the mountains.”

  The SAC leaned back in his swivel chair. “There were reasons for requesting the pleasure of your company. Any discussion even potentially connecting a United States senator to alleged espionage is far too sensitive to conduct over an open line. And I wanted to see you face-to-face so I could offer you a confidential update.” Sam Parker bunched the bushy brows. “I am authorized to inform you that the senator’s security leak has been plugged. A member of Davidson’s D.C. staff was arrested yesterday, in Falls Church, Virginia. It’ll be on the six o’clock news, but I thought you’d want to hear it from me.”

  The tribal investigator felt his hands go cold. He wanted to say that this was good news. That he was truly sorry he’d wasted the Bureau’s valuable time with his hunch that the Electric GroundHog was bugged. But the sting of failure had numbed his lips.

  Parker, who had suffered more than a few professional embarrassments, understood. “You’re a way better than average country cop, Charlie. But when it comes to crimes like espionage, let the Bureau handle it.”

  Moon nodded. “Guess I’ve been playing out of my league.”

  “Hey, you tried the majors, gave it your best swing—and you struck out. That’s a helluva lot better than not ever walking up to the plate. But from now on, leave the fast pitches to the heavy-hitters.”

  Moon fixed his gaze over the SAC’s head, at a framed watercolor of blue and yellow flowers thumbtacked to the wall. For Daddy, the youthful artist had scrawled. Proof that somebody loved the fed.

  Parker snapped the cover shut on the report.

  The tribal investigator pushed himself up from the uncomfortable chair, went to the window. The pigeon turned a blood-tinted eye on the tall man. Made a warbling sound.

  Moon muttered a response in the Ute tongue.

  The feathered creature departed in a flutter of gray wings.

  DENVER AND the bitter taste of defeat now well behind him, Granite Creek would be visible just over the next ridge. Another hour beyond the town, nestled between the mountains, the Columbine. Home was a powerful, relentless magnet. Always pulling at him.

  Charlie Moon thought he might stop just long enough to top off the gas tank, then pass through town to begin the drive across the high, arid prairie toward his ranch. But there was a sharp disagreement from his members. The Ute’s long legs informed his brain that they needed stretching. Denied this necessity, they would slowly turn blue, wither up, fall off. His stomach chimed in with an urgent request for sustenance. The requests became demands. The left side of his brain reminded him that there was no pressing need to return immediately to the ranch. Charlie Moon surrendered; he would appease both legs and stomach. He found a parking space between Martin Street and Nelson Avenue, just two blocks from where the three-story brick police station squatted like a lazy toad waiting for a felonious fly. The walk made his legs very happy. His stomach sulked.

  Refreshed by this mild exercise, he entered the GCPD building, nodded at the day shift dispatcher, climbed the stairs to the corner office occupied by the chief of police. Scott Parris greeted his best friend, took him into the chief’s meeting room where coffee was offered the visitor. Plus a jelly donut. The Ute decided that the best way to dispose of this sweet temptation was with three savage bites.

  Parris, though on a steady diet of undercooked broccoli and semi-raw carrots, still suffered the indignity of a slight bulge around the middle. The middle-aged man watched his lean friend with a jealous eye as Moon accepted a second donut, then resisted a third. “I see you’re not overly hungry today.”

  “Saving my appetite for suppertime.”

  The older man looked down at his belt buckle, sighed.

  Moon added sugar to his black coffee. “Thanks for the refreshments.”

  Parris gave his friend a long, thoughtful appraisal. “You look kinda tired.”

  “Was up before the sun. Drove over the mountains to Denver. Spent some time with the suits.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “So what’s happening in your life?”

  A melancholy expression spread over the white man’s face. “Dismal ain’t the word. You know what that woman has done—”

  Moon cut him off. “Hold it right there.”

  “What?”

  “When you start moaning about your love life, you get that hang-dog look. It’s just too pitiful and I can’t bear to see it.”

  “Well, what’d you like to hear about—my last attack of colitis?”

  The Ute considered the offer. “Think I’ll pass on that one.”

  “Then what?”

  “Tell me about something you’re working on.”

  Parris waved an arm at the stack of documents on the cluttered table. “I’m working on performance appraisals. Budget estimates. Duty roster for next month.”

  “This is really sad. You must be doing something worth talking about.”

  “Not really.” The chief of police rubbed at watery eyes. “This job is getting to be a real drag.”

  “Anything on that big fire and explosion at the airport construction site?”

  Parris removed a file from a gray metal cabinet. “We got this report back from the state arson investigator.” He opened the folder. “But didn’t I already tell you about that?”

  The tribal investigator shook his head.

  “I guess that’s because there was nothing particularly interesting between the covers. Mostly speculation. It’s clear enough that something set off the portable propane tank inside the unfinished terminal building. Could’ve been a trash fire. A lightning strike. Or maybe somebody took a potshot at the fuel tank.”

  A shot. “Forensics turn up anything on that chunk of lead?”

  “Oh, yeah�
��I’d almost forgot about your big find at the burn site.” The chief of police grinned. “The specimen of lead that might possibly be the remains of a high-caliber bullet.” Parris searched the arson investigator’s report, found the section titled “Miscellaneous Debris,” ran his finger down the page until he found a paragraph entitled “Lead Fragment.” “You want to read it?”

  “Nope. Just give me the executive summary.”

  “Okay, I’ll boil the cabbage down. Based on amounts of trace levels of bismuth and antimony, the lead was mined at a location in south-western Saskatchewan. Same corporation that mines the ore also uses the refined metal in their product line.” Parris recited the list. “Highcurrent electrical terminals for industrial circuit breakers. Electrodes for lead-acid electrolytic cells. Fishing sinkers. And security seals.” He bunched his eyebrows at this last entry. “I guess that means those wire seals the electric company puts on their meters—to keep dishonest customers from tampering with the readout.”

  “But this Canadian company doesn’t make bullets.”

  “Not even a BB for your Daisy rifle.” Parris flipped the report aside. “The terminal building was full of all kinds of construction stuff. Welding machines, gasoline and diesel engines, every kind of hand and power tool you can imagine. So after the explosion, I guess we shouldn’t be surprised to find almost anything scattered around the ruins.”

  Moon returned to the coffeepot, refilled his cup. “The construction company—they have insurance coverage?”

  “Twelve million and change. But the firm’s not in any kind of financial trouble, so if the terminal building was torched, I doubt it was for the insurance. Probably some sicko who loves to see the fire.” He wriggled his fingers to imitate flames dancing.

  Happy to have this diversion from his troubles, Moon leaned back in his chair. “Could’ve been kids playing around with matches.”

  Parris nodded. “Last year we had three juveniles build a campfire inside a barn—where the straw was six inches deep. Fire was out of control before they could get their marshmallows roasted. Loss was over eighty thousand dollars. Poor dairy farmer got wiped out. Dumb-ass kids got a stern lecture from the judge plus a year’s probation.” Parris shook his head. “I don’t know what some of these young people use for brains.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  THE CHEF

  CHARLIE MOON SLOWED AS HE PASSED THE MOUNTAIN MAN BAR & Grille. The graveled parking lot was almost filled. Quite a crowd for this time of day. He did a U-turn, pulled into the graveled lot fronting the establishment. Maybe he took my advice.

  Indeed, the owner of the business had given up his cook’s apron. BoBo Harper was at the cash register, smiling as he accepted credit cards, hard cash, and earnest compliments from happy diners. He was still grinning when he saw the Ute. “Hey, fella, glad to see you. This meal’s on the house. But while we clear a table, I got somebody I want you to say hello to.” He took the Ute by the elbow, guided him through a restaurant crowded with happy customers. BoBo pushed the swinging doors aside, ushered his guest into the kitchen. The formerly filthy den had been transformed. Copper-bottom pans sparkled, the stainless steel sink shined—even the floors were clean.

  At the gas range, the new cook was hard at work. Mrs. Brewster looked up to see the new arrival, smiled. BoBo clapped his honored guest on the back. “Jane, I think you’ve already met Mr. Moon.” He winked. “This here fella’s my business advisor.” With this, the owner departed into the dining room, shouting orders to one of three new waitresses he had hired to help Charlene.

  Jane Brewster put aside a ladle. She reached out, captured Charlie Moon in a crushing bear hug.

  He winced at the pain in a fractured rib. “What’s this all about?”

  “You know very well.” Her eyes were filling with tears. “Now lean over, you two-legged telephone pole.”

  He leaned.

  She kissed him.

  If his dark face could have blushed, it would have.

  The cook laughed at the shy man. “I know you recommended me for this job. And don’t you deny it—Mr. Harper told me.”

  Moon grinned. “Looks like business has picked up.”

  “And I haven’t forgot how you made a place on top of that pretty hill for my daughter’s grave.” Wilma Brewster’s mother wiped at her eyes. “Now go out there and find yourself a table—I’m going to fix you something really special.”

  Charlene seated Moon; the waitress patted him on the shoulder. “Glad to see you back.”

  “I’m glad to be back.”

  She put a hand on her hip. “So what’ll ya have to drink?”

  He thought about it.

  “We got real lemonade. Fresh squeezed.”

  The diner looked doubtful. “Squeezed from what?”

  “From cactus apples.” She brayed the donkey laugh, slapped him on the arm. “From lemons, of course.”

  “Then bring me a tall glass.”

  “You got it, honey.”

  Twenty minutes later, the cattle rancher was hard at work on a stacked green chili enchilada. The creation was segmented with blue-corn tortillas, laced with onions and tender roast beef, smothered in sharp cheddar cheese. The BoxCar gatekeeper had not exaggerated this woman’s culinary skills. Jane Brewster was a rare find.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  TROUBLE

  AS HE HAD A HUNDRED TIMES BEFORE, CHARLIE MOON DROVE THE Ford pickup westward along his favorite stretch of two-lane highway. It was barely an hour from Granite Creek to the Columbine entrance. He could almost see it. The massive log arch spanning the entrance. The dirt lane crawling like a yellow snake over the high prairie grasslands, skirting the green garments of granite mountains, slipping over rocky ridges. Pete and Dolly Bushman’s sturdy log house, set under a cluster of cottonwoods. Finally, the rattling plank bridge over Too Late Creek, and home. Home. Now there was a fine word. Like a warm pocket filled with sweet things. Shelter. Food. Sleep. Peace.

  Even among the dead bones of autumn, when the prairie grasses were brittle with frost and a stiff breeze swept waves of powdered snow across the highway, he still found a special joy in this short journey. At this moment, the majestic, flint-hard loveliness was more wondrous than on any previous passing. But on this particularly steel-gray day, the tribal investigator was blind to the visual banquet spread out before him. The man’s normally buoyant spirit was heavy under the weight of failure. Melancholy thoughts magnified his defeat. There wasn’t anything wrong with the senator’s electric scooter. Or anything suspicious about him getting crippled up. I’ll never know who killed Wilma Brewster. I’ll never see the face of the man who bashed Billy Smoke’s head in for a few dollars—or maybe just for the hell of it. And probably would have done the same to Senator Davidson if Oscar Sweetwater hadn’t come running with his pistol. Sam Parker was right—I should stick to what I do best. Whatever that is.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a warbling. The tribal investigator found the cell phone in his jacket pocket. “Yeah?”

  His aunt’s voice crackled in his ear. “Yeah? That’s no way to answer the telephone.”

  Moon forced a cheerful tone. “What’s up?”

  She told him. “I’m not sleeping good.”

  He grinned into the phone. “Shouldn’t be a big problem—brew yourself some of that Red Root tea.”

  “That wouldn’t help, Red Root is for stopping bleeding!”

  He assumed a doubtful tone. “You sure about that?”

  “Well, of course I’m sure—when a person can’t sleep, they need a dose of figwort or bugleweed tea.” There was a pause before she began to mutter to herself. “He’s got me off the track.” A sigh. “Now what was it I wanted to tell him about?”

  “Sorry, I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, you big jughead.” Another pause. “Now I remember. So shut up and listen to what I’ve got to say.”

  He shut up, and listened.

  The shaman did not men
tion her visit to the pitukupf’s underground home, or the fact that her most recent vision had been induced by eating the little man’s carved piñon nuts. But she did tell him what she had seen, though she disguised the vision as a dream.

  The tribal investigator half-listened to a wild tale about an old man in a wheeled cart, a gigantic tipi that vanished, great heaps of roasted corpses. When the aged storyteller paused for a breath, he felt obliged to offer a sympathetic comment. “That was a nightmare on legs.”

  Nightmare. That reminded her. The Ute elder’s voice was heavy with accusation. “It’s all your fault, Charlie Moon—you could’ve stopped it from happening!”

  She must still be half asleep. “I could’ve, huh?”

  With uncharacteristic patience, she proceeded to explain. If her nephew had not been so busy with that pretty mare, he would’ve understood what was going to happen and done something to prevent it. She paused, waiting for his apology.

  “I am truly sorry for my many shortcomings.” Next time, I’ll try to pay more attention to what you’re dreaming.

  Somewhat mollified, Daisy Perika proceeded to tell him about an earlier vision—which she also presented as an unsettling dream.

  Moon was moderately entertained by the bizarre account of a shadowy presence that had chopped off a man’s head. And not just any man—a distinguished elder. To humor the eccentric old soul, he inquired, “Who was this fella who lost his head?”

  Her tone was testy. “I’d rather not say.” You’d just laugh at me.

  He knew how to make her talk. “Yeah. Maybe it’s better if you don’t tell me—”