Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  A hand-printed sign was tacked to the door.

  IF YOU WERE NOT INVITED

  YOU ARE NOT WELCOME

  GO AWAY!

  Hand resting on the butt of his holstered pistol, Moon called out. The only response was a thin echo off a cliff wall, a raspy call from an unseen raven. He knocked once on the unpainted door, then tried the knob. Locked. The lawman reminded himself that the right and proper thing would be to get a warrant before entering.

  Well to hell with that.

  For the second time on this singular day, he kicked a door in. Revolver in hand, the tribal investigator entered the musty building. An overpowering stench of stale food and sour beer sucked his breath away.

  Moon switched on a penlight, poked bright holes in the soupy near-darkness. The shack enclosed a single rectangular room. A shiny tin fixture sprouting a trio of lightbulbs hung from the ceiling. He pulled at a dangling string to switch on this poor man’s chandelier. What he saw complemented the noxious odors. With a little cleaning up, Allan Pearson’s hangout could qualify as a pig pen. Bits of cracked brown plaster hung like scabs on the walls, rotting pine rafters were thick with sooty cobwebs. Aside from a sturdy wooden bench under the south window, a rickety pair of straight-backed chairs, and a brokendown old cupboard, there was no furniture worthy of the name. Only a scattering of wooden and cardboard boxes, a bookcase jury-rigged from pine boards set on cinder blocks. An unvented space heater squatted near the wall where the external propane tank gamely played its supporting role. In a corner, there was a small electric refrigerator, its worn compressor chugging away erratically, imitating an outboard motor with fouled spark plugs.

  The senator’s nephew apparently slept on a mattress on the floor. Littered about at random were bits of dirty clothing, dirtier blankets, biker magazines with sassy-looking pinups on the covers. Stacked in a cobwebbed corner were cardboard boxes of canned goods. Corn, pinto beans, tomato soup, green peas. A large plastic trash container was half filled with empty food cans. A makeshift table—an unpainted sheet of plywood set on a pair of wooden boxes—was littered with unwashed cooking and eating utensils. Plus a scattering of hypodermic syringes and pill bottles.

  Only the workbench displayed some semblance of order. On the Formica-covered surface there was a plastic toolbox, a Fluke digital voltmeter, a model 545 Tektronix oscilloscope, a soldering iron, a roll of electrician’s tape. But Moon’s attention was focused on an AusTex Beef Stew box occupying the precise center of the bench. After a careful inspection that convinced him the box was not booby-trapped, he used the blade of his pocketknife to lift the lid. Inside the cardboard container were a variety of interesting items.

  Most prominent to Moon’s eye were the disassembled components of a twelve-volt storage battery. The plastic casing had been neatly sawed into upper and lower halves. Lead electrodes were carefully arranged in a glass tray.

  A small pressurized tank was propped in a corner of the box. A painted label specified its contents. The liquefied gas was so dangerous that few craftsmen had used it for years, preferring more stable products. But the old-fashioned compound was readily available.

  There were also two Kerr canning jars. Each was half filled with a powder, one a rusty brown color, the other silvery in appearance. From his military experience, Moon understood the significance of the contents. By themselves, the powders were harmless enough. But combined in the proper proportions, these were the basic ingredients for a highly potent incendiary. Because the composition was relatively difficult to ignite, a brick of it was safe enough to carry around in your pocket. But once the mix was lit off, it would melt holes through any known metal or alloy. And the fire could not be extinguished—the hellish burn continued until the material was entirely consumed. Very, very ugly stuff.

  The assassin had left behind a clear account of his malignant method. Surround a pound of the powder composition with a half-gallon of the liquefied gas, conceal the package in a hollowed-out storage battery, ignite the assembly—the result was an extremely impressive explosion and fire. Enough to destroy an unoccupied airport terminal building—or a House Chamber filled with human beings. Allan Pearson was determined to make certain that he received full credit for his nefarious activities.

  Moon replaced the lid on the box, went to the open door for a breath of clean air. As his eyes scanned the top of the mesa, the Ute wondered where the senator’s nephew had gone to ground. Wherever it was, the quirky young criminal would be a very long way from the BoxCar.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Three Weeks Later

  A STEAMING CUP OF COFFEE WARMING HIS HAND, CHARLIE MOON waited on the west porch of the Columbine headquarters. The hound stood stiffly beside him, bile-green hatred glinting in his eyes. Man and beast alike watched Stanley Newman emerge from the Ford sedan, march purposefully across the yard. The FBI agent carried a briefcase.

  The descendant of wolves moved protectively in front of the human being he had adopted. The animal bared yellowed teeth, rumbled a low growl.

  Moon spoke softly. “It’s okay, Sidewinder—he works for the government.”

  The dog, reputed to be a hard-shell Republican, growled louder.

  Newman paused at the porch steps, gave the ill-tempered animal a wary look. “He bite?”

  “Only when you least expect it.” Moon scratched a spot behind the dog’s ear.

  The beast sniffed at the fed’s knees, slobbered on his shoe, lost interest, trotted away to wherever such creatures trot.

  The rancher took his guest inside, invited him to sit by the fireplace where an aromatic piñon fire crackled sweetly.

  The federal agent seated himself in a leather chair. Closed his eyes. Sighed. This is the life. Wish I could just stay here with Charlie.

  The Ute jabbed a sooty iron poker at the fire. “How about some coffee.”

  Newman leaned toward the flames. “Thanks, but I’m all coffeed up.”

  “Where’s your partner, Stan?”

  The query echoed from the suit back to the Ute. “Partner?”

  “You fellas always travel in pairs.” Unless there was a good reason not to—like there shouldn’t be a witness to the business conducted.

  The visitor danced a nimble sidestep around the question. “You’re a curious man, Charlie, you know that?”

  “I’m a man who’s already talked himself to death about what happened at the BoxCar. Last week, I spent three ten-hour days at the Federal Building in Denver, giving my deposition to a covey of Justice Department lawyers. Which makes me wonder what I could possibly tell you that you don’t already know.”

  “Okay. I guess we might as well get down to brass doorknobs.”

  “Try tacks.”

  “What?”

  “They’re like nails, only shorter. And sharper.”

  Momentarily disoriented, Newman attempted to blink the glaze off his eyes. “Dammit, I wish you wouldn’t derail my chain of thought!”

  “Break.”

  “Huh?”

  “Or train.”

  Newman threw up his hands. “Charlie, what in hell are you jabbering about?”

  “Sorry—must be my old head injury kicking in. Every now and then, random thoughts come popping into my mind and outta my mouth. Carpet tacks. Links breaking. Old Eighty-Nine derailing.” He sighed. “It’s embarrassing.”

  “Well, try to focus your ears on what I’m saying.” With no small effort, the special agent gathered a disparate collection of thoughts. “I need to consult with you on some evidence. Bureau forensics has been sifting the ashes in what’s left of the log house formerly occupied by Henry Buford. We sure we’ve found his remains, but it would be helpful to have some confirmation.” Having been told of Moon’s friendship with the BoxCar ranch manager, he avoided the Ute’s pained expression. “According to our clever white-frocked Beakers, the fire reached temperatures well above three thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Except for ceramic and stone, just about everything in Buford’s house was
either melted or reduced to cinders, so there wasn’t much evidence left.”

  The rancher leaned the poker against the fireplace.

  “Where Buford’s kitchen used to be, our forensic techs found some powder that had a high calcium content. Almost certainly the remnants of bone, and the distribution of the material was consistent with that of a prone human body.” He offered Moon a stack of black-and-white prints. The photo on top showed a barely perceptible grayish outline on a slighter darker field of ash. Other prints showed views of the same material from a variety of angles. “These photos are just the way we found the ruin—nothing has been touched.”

  Moon began to examine the high-resolution photograph evidence print by print. “No dental evidence?”

  The FBI agent shook his head. “Wasn’t enough of Buford’s teeth left for an ID. If he’d had ceramic dentures, we’d have been in Fat City.” Newman extended his palms toward the fireplace, flexed his fingers in the warmth. “We recovered four specimens of melted lead. Average mass was about ten grams—which is consistent with a one hundred and fifty-eight-grain point thirty-eight-caliber slug. One of the presumed bullets was found in close association with the remains, the others were located a few meters away. The body apparently stopped one bullet; the others either missed or passed through the victim. Looks like Buford was shot, then left to burn to a cinder when the house was torched.” He lowered his head, studied the tongue-and-groove planking in the hardwood floor. I hope to God he was dead.

  The blaze in the fireplace sizzled into a sooty plume over a resinous piñon knot. Charlie Moon felt the searing heat on his face. For a fleeting moment, he fancied he could smell burning flesh. With some effort, he dismissed the odorous fantasy.

  Newman was giving the Ute a worried look. “Charlie, to the best of your knowledge, did Mr. Buford own a pocketknife?”

  Moon searched the dark corners of his memory, found what he was looking for. “I saw him use one at the Columbine—on the day we had that run-in with the motorcycle gang.”

  “Give me a description.”

  The tribal investigator reconstructed the image. “Handle was stainless steel. Decorated with some lines—blue, I think. Closed, it was about two, maybe two and a half inches long.”

  Newman leaned forward, staring holes in his witness. “What about the blade?”

  “It was black.” The tribal investigator understood. “Must’ve been ceramic.”

  The FBI agent’s relief at this testimony spread across his face. He unzipped a side pocket on the briefcase, removed a padded manila envelope marked: “EVIDENCE/BoxCar/Structure 2.” Inside the envelope was a sealed plastic bag with an evidence tag that read: “BxCr/ Structure 2/Grid 122?430.” “About halfway along the bone-powder distribution, which would be near the victim’s pelvis—and his hip pocket—our forensics team found this.” He offered the packet to the Ute. “Look familiar?”

  Moon switched on a floor lamp, stared at the ash-stained contents of the transparent bag. Nothing was left of Buford’s pocketknife except the ceramic blade. “That looks like it.”

  Newman’s broad grin split his hatchet face. “Great. We already traced the purchase of a Boker pocketknife of this same model to a cutlery store in Cherry Creek. It was charged to Henry Buford’s Visa card, but that was almost four years ago. With your corroboration that he was carrying the knife recently, we got an ID of his remains we can hang our hat on.”

  The tribal investigator sorted through the remaining photographs, pausing at a print of the charred fireplace. The blackened chimney remained standing. The granite mantelpiece had cracked from the intense heat. Where the pewter candlesticks had stood, there were frozen puddles of dirty gray metal. Aside from this, the mantel was clear and clean; the winds had swept the smaller ash away with Henry Buford’s spirit.

  The FBI agent drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “If you’re done with those, I’ll put ’em away.”

  The Ute continued to stare at the image.

  Newman reached, took the photos from Moon’s hand. “We’ll need your signed statement later on the knife blade, but the Denver SAC wanted to get your informal response today.” He got up from the chair, held his breath for a moment, gave the comfortable parlor a longing look. “Guess I’m about done here.”

  Moon raised an eyebrow. This busy man had surely not driven a hundred and seventy miles merely to show him the ceramic blade from Henry Buford’s pocketknife. “Stay for lunch, Stan. I’ll bake us some potatoes, burn some prime beef.”

  “That’s tempting.” Newman stared at his wristwatch without noting the time. “But I need to be going.” He headed for the door, paused. “There is one more thing.”

  Moon suppressed a smile. Here it comes.

  “Almost forgot,” the FBI agent lied. He removed a card from his inside jacket pocket. “I got something I’m supposed to read to you.”

  “My rights?”

  Ignoring the remark, Newman held the card eleven inches from his eyes, cleared his throat. “‘The Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, acting upon the instructions of the Attorney General of the United States and in concurrence with the wishes of the director of the United States Secret Service, directs Mr. Charles Moon to make no statement whatever, public or private, regarding any information or opinion he may have that might bear upon the recent explosion in the United States Capitol Building’”—Newman paused for a breath—“‘or any other matter that might be related to said explosion. This direction is made in the interests of national security.’” He put the card back in his pocket.

  Directs? Moon stared at his guest. “Why’d they send you?”

  Newman made a lopsided grin. “’Cause me and you are buddies.”

  The Ute cocked his head. “Since when?”

  “Now don’t be a hostile Indian—your government prefers to keep this arrangement as friendly as possible.” He passed the Ute the document and a ballpoint pen. “Sign at the bottom, to verify that you have read the statement.”

  “Mind if I read it first?”

  Newman assumed a wounded expression. “What—you don’t trust your federal government?”

  Moon took his time examining the fine print, then gave his guest a wry half-smile. “Seeing as how we’re such good buddies, I bet you’ll be glad to tell me what all this legal mumbo jumbo means.”

  The FBI agent avoided the Ute’s gaze. “It is my official duty to inform you that the agreement is nothing to get uptight about. Just some paperwork to keep the lawyers happy.”

  “Okay, Stan, you’ve done your duty. Now tell me what this is all about.”

  Newman came very near blushing. “Off the record?”

  “You’re a guest in my home.”

  “Okay, Chucky, but you never heard me say this. Bottom line—you maintain the discretion for which you are legendary, you are a Friend of Uncle Sam. Which along with about four dollars and fifty cents will get you a tasty cup of vanilla-flavored java at one of those yuppie caffeine saloons. But should you make a slip of the lip, your uncle can and will squash you like a stinkbug.”

  “If you’re joking, it ain’t funny.”

  “I am terminally earnest. There’s at least a half dozen ways the Justice Department can nail your hide to the barn.”

  “Tell me one.”

  “Okay. You’re a material witness. Justice can hold you in protective custody to safeguard your person from vindictive elements of the terrorist conspiracy that attempted to knock off the top dogs in D.C.”

  “Hold me—how long?”

  “Till the snow drifts six feet deep in Tucson on the Fourth of July. And the Cubs win the pennant. And not a stalk of corn grows in Iowa.”

  Moon helped himself to a long, thoughtful look at the federal agent.

  Newman wiped his fingertips across the smooth leather surface of the briefcase. “And that’s just for starters—they might even decide to target you as an accomplice.”

  The Ute could hardly believe his ears. “
What did you say?”

  “Charlie, traces of your DNA were found inside the cardboard box that the neph—that the unknown person or persons placed over the bomb-making apparatus in Allan Pearson’s shack.”

  “Well of course it was. I probably shed some skin cells when I was opening the lid to—” The Ute’s protest was halted by Newman’s raised palm.

  “Listen to me—there are certain influential elements in Justice who are suggesting that you know altogether too damn much about this case. Proponents of this fascinating line of reasoning are proposing the theory that you are a part of the conspiracy. According to this scenario, Charlie Moon was in cahoots with the terrorist organization—maybe some Native American radicals. But something went sour at the last minute. You got cold feet. Called in the warning to the Secret Service—not to preserve the government, but to eliminate yourself as a probable suspect.”

  Moon experienced a bizarre sensation; it had the eerie quality of an out-of-body experience. He was not a part of this impossible conversation, but rather an amused witness to it. He heard himself say, “Stan, you know that’s crazy.”

  “Sure I do. I also know that innocent people get sliced and diced every day of the week.”

  There was a lengthy silence.

  In a corner closet, a Mormon cricket chirped.

  A clock on the wall struck eleven times. After the last tone had faded, the pendulum continued to click and clack.

  Moon came back to earth. He returned the single page to the special agent. “Thanks for the straight talk—I am obliged to you.”

  “I am obliged to point out that you did not sign the form.”