Dead Soul (11 page)

Pearson sniffed. “Which leaves you…precisely where?”

“I have no official capacity, except as a representative of the tribal chairman.”

The senator’s nephew affected a slight curl of the lip. “And what do you expect to accomplish that the FBI, with all its considerable resources, cannot?”

“Hard to say.” The tribal investigator wondered what was bothering this young fellow. “Guess I’ll just poke around some. See if I can get under somebody’s skin.”

Pearson clenched his delicate hands into tight little fists. “That sounds like a good working definition of an irritant.”

“Does, doesn’t it?” The tall Ute fixed his inquisitor with a flinty stare. “It’ll be interesting to see who gets itchy.”

Quite unconsciously, the senator’s nephew scratched at his neck.

Moon grinned.
I am having too much fun
.

“Please excuse me,” Pearson snapped.

Moon watched him leave, heard the sandals flip-flopping down the tiled hallway.

THE WOMAN

HAVING BEEN
deprived of his smelly, irritable host, Moon felt lonely. As an exercise, the tribal investigator made a visual inspection of the “library.” There were a dozen overstuffed chairs. Two matching couches long enough to nap on. A scattering of small tables, all topped with pink marble. An antique bar—apparently salvaged from an old saloon—ran almost the full length of the north wall. On oak paneling above the bar, there was a framed painting of a pale, plump woman reclining on a gilded couch. Her cheeks were blushed with embarrassment—apparently because her ample form was draped in translucent yellow silk. The opposite wall was a jarring contrast, fairly bristling with state-of-the-art electronic equipment. The centerpiece was a large-screen television. Flanking this were an array of speakers, concealed behind acoustic mesh in five-foot-high enclosures. There was a scattering of expensive-looking VCRs and DVD players. An audio spectrum analyzer. Two computers. Several telephones. Something that looked like a shortwave transmitter. In a corner by itself, an anachronism—an antique radio. A black horn speaker curved gracefully over the varnished maple enclosure, which boasted eight tuning knobs. On a massive shelf just above the television screen, a hundred-gallon aquarium fluoresced in a faint purple glow from cunningly concealed illumination. A dune of lavender-tinted sand was heaped on the bottom of the glazed tank, and this was speckled with glistening stones of various sizes and colors. But there was not a drop of water. Behind the thick glass lurked a black and yellow Gila monster, its scaled belly plumped out on a flat rock. Moon wondered whether the thing was alive. More likely this was the product of a skilled taxidermist’s hand. To get a better look; he leaned close. The venomous lizard twitched a fat sausage tail.

The descendant of stone-age sages watched with fascination. If it could talk, what would the scaly creature say to him?

The Gila monster shot the Ute a poisonous look. Opened its mouth…

“Mr. Moon?”

The startled man stared at the reptile for a long moment.
No. Couldn’t be
. He turned.

The woman in the doorway was a vision from the 1890s. She wore a ruffled yellow blouse, an ankle-length blue skirt, an enigmatic smile. An antique cameo was nestled against her throat. Glistening black hair spilled in rippling waves to a slender waist. For a disjointed moment, Moon completely lost his reason—he fancied that he had encountered a spirit who haunted the halls of the palatial sandstone home.

The faery queen floated across the space between them, offered her hand. “I am the senator’s personal assistant, Miss James.”

He heard himself saying something about being very glad to be here. Which was a sizable understatement.

“We are happy that you could find the time to pay us a visit.” She squeezed his hand.

I think she likes me
. Charlie Moon grinned so hard his jaws ached.

“The senator is pleased that you have arrived.” The oval face was looking up at him.

I bet you have to beat the men off with a stick
. But he sensed something hidden somewhere behind the astonishingly pretty face. A deep sadness.

She withdrew her hand. But not all that quickly. “At the moment you arrived, the senator was occupied with some unexpected business, and it was necessary for me to assist him. We regret that there was not someone here to greet you properly, but the senator prefers to keep the staff at his western home to an absolute minimum.”

“His nephew let me in.”

She hesitated. “I do hope Allan has taken good care of you.”

Allan?
“Oh—yeah.”

“Would you like to see the senator now?”

“No.”

She echoed. “No?”

“No, ma’am. I’d much rather talk with you.”

Miss James arched a pretty eyebrow. “About what?”

Anything at all
.

She waited.

Moon felt his face burning.
What do I say now?
“Uh—it’s my job. Talking to people, I mean. Asking questions.” He looked over her head. Tried to think of a question. “You like living out here?”
I am an idiot. And that’s a compliment
.

“I adore it.” She closed her eyes for a moment. “All the open space. The quiet.”

The drowning man grasped at this fragment of flotsam. “I own the ranch next door. The Columbine.”

“I know. I have heard that it is an absolutely lovely place.” The silver dollar-sized eyes sparkled with mischief. “But it may be that these are mere rumors. Perhaps the Columbine’s reputation is inflated.”

“There’s only one way to find out for sure.”

“Why, Mr. Moon—is that an invitation?”

“No, but this is—Miss James, would you like to drop by for a visit?”

There was a flicker of uncertainty; she looked away. “I don’t know. My responsibilities here keep me rather busy.”

“Not a problem. I’ll tell the boss man to give you a day off.”

“Oh, no—that will not be necessary.” She studied his face. It was a nice face. “When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“Life is short.”

Miss James gazed out the window, toward the jagged range of granite peaks. “Perhaps on one of my days off—”

“Okay, then. It’s a deal.”

A telephone warbled.

She withdrew her hand from his, slipped the instrument under a long strand of raven hair, taking care not to press it against a tiny pearl mounted on an earlobe. “Yes.” She listened. “Certainly. I will be there directly.” Miss James pressed a button to silence the telephone, smiled at the tall man. “I must be off to assist the senator for a moment. I do hope you don’t mind waiting for him a little while longer.”

“I mind a lot,” he said. “But I’ll hang around.”

She flashed a man-killing smile, vanished.

It was as if the sun had gone down. Forever.

Chapter Fourteen

THE SENATOR

ALL ALONE IN THE WEALTHY MAN
’
S LIBRARY
-
WITHOUT
-
BOOKS
, Charlie Moon was at peace with himself. As he gazed out the window at sun-streaked clouds slipping over granite peaks, his happy thoughts drifted along with them.
Maybe she’ll like the Columbine. And want to come back again. Then, maybe
…

The rancher’s blissful daydream was interrupted by the sound of a raspy cough. He turned to see a bushy-haired man under the entry arch. The lower half of Patch Davidson’s spare form was concealed in a high-tech vehicle mounted on four plump pneumatic tires. There were control panels on both armrests, a telescoping antenna erupting behind the Moroccan leather seat. The chrome logo on the sloping hood asserted that this was a 4WD Electric GroundHog.

“Glad to see you.” The politician beamed the patented charismatic smile at his guest.

“Same here.” Moon reached for the extended hand; it grabbed him like an iron pincer.

Patch Davidson maintained the smile. “Sorry I wasn’t here to greet you personally.”

“No problem.”

“I understand you’ve met my nephew. I hope Allan took good care of you.”

“I’m a low-maintenance kind of guest.”

The senator laughed. “And you’ve met my personal assistant.”

Moon grinned. “Yes, I have.”

“Miss James is a highly valued member of my staff.” Davidson tapped at a steel brace on his right leg. “Since my injuries, she has become absolutely indispensable.” He gave the Ute a searching look. “Charlie, it’s been a long time. Do you remember when we last met?”

The tribal investigator shook his head.

“Later on, we’ll talk about old times.” Davidson pointed at a couch. “Try that one.” The head of the house reached into an inside coat pocket, produced a slender Cuban cigar. He clamped the stogie between his teeth, fixed the Ute with a look of melancholy. “I can’t light the damn thing, because I have given up smoking. I also refrain from drinking strong spirits. And I avoid profane language as much as is humanly possible. I have said good-bye to my bad habits—I am a new man since my injury.”

“And you’re a busy man,” Moon said, “so I appreciate you giving me some time. I expect you know why I’m here.”

“Sure I do. Politics.”

“I don’t involve myself in politics, Senator. My tribal chairman asked me to look into the killing of your driver. Billy Smoke hasn’t lived on the reservation for twenty years, but he was an enrolled member of the Southern Ute Tribe, and the chairman isn’t entirely satisfied with the results of the official investigation.”

Senator Davidson removed the unlighted cigar from his mouth, tapped it against the knuckles of his left hand. “Oscar Sweetwater is a fine fellow, and a good friend of mine for these many years. But your tribal chairman is also a politician. And a damned effective one. He wants you to look into the death of my Ute driver—not because there is any doubt about what happened, but because this course of action will please the voters on the reservation. You know what they’ll say: ‘When one of our people gets bludgeoned to death, Chairman Sweetwater doesn’t sit still. He sends Charlie Moon to check on the work done by the local PD, the BIA cops—even the FBI.’ So in the larger sense, your visit is about politics.” He aimed the Havana at Moon’s chest. “Even if you don’t know it.”

Moon stared at the dormant cigar. “I’ve already had a talk with the Granite Creek chief of police, and I’ll be contacting a special agent in the Durango FBI office. After I’ve come to a conclusion, I’ll report my findings to Oscar Sweetwater.”

Patch Davidson seemed amused by this speech. “Very well. I’m a professional politician—you’re a professional lawman. We see things from our own perspectives. So let’s discuss what’s on your mind. You want to know whether I recall anything that isn’t in the written statement I submitted to the authorities. The answer is
no
.”

“Fair enough—but just so I can tell Oscar I didn’t waste my time coming here, why don’t you tell me what happened.”

“Oh, very well. Oscar Sweetwater and me, we’re at the Blue Light enjoying a late dinner. We finish our dessert, I smoke a cigar.” He stared with great longing at the unlighted cylinder in his hand. “We say our good-byes. Oscar leaves by the front exit, I go out the back way into the employee’s parking space, where I expect Billy Smoke to be waiting with the Lincoln. It is raining and sleeting to beat the band; I am getting wet and cold as a trout. When I finally spot the car, I find out that Billy is not in it. Figuring he has probably downed a beer or two or three, I suppose he’s gone off to take a pee.”

“You didn’t notice his body behind the Lincoln.”

“I did not. I’m about to get in the car when I think I hear Billy coming. That’s when it happens.”

Moon was trying to wrap his mind around this. “Somebody smacks you on the legs?”

“Not immediately. First, I am struck on the head. Next thing I know, I am flat on my ass, sleet falling in my face. But my head hurts like sixteen kinds of hell, and I can’t move a muscle. That’s when the bastard starts to bash me some more. I think he kicks me in the ribs a couple of times, but the worst blows are to my legs. I never experienced such terrible pain. Soon as I can get my breath, I start screaming—or trying to. That’s when your tribal chairman hears me. As Oscar Sweetwater approaches—pistol in hand—the mugger takes off. Oscar tells me not to worry, he’ll get help. Then he trots off to summon the police, the paramedics—hell, maybe he calls out the National Guard. A few minutes later about a hundred cops show up.” Senator Davidson twirled the joystick; the Electric GroundHog responded with a snappy one-hundred-eighty-degree about-face. “That’s the whole story. I did not get more than a glimpse of the miserable so-and-so who killed Billy, and busted up my legs.”

Moon stared at the blunt rear end of the four-wheel-drive conveyance. It resembled a small automobile. A black plastic bumper sported a pair of square taillights. Above the bumper was a compartment marked
BATTERIES
. “There was only one assailant?”

“Hell’s bells, I don’t know. But one was all I saw.” Another twist of the joystick. Another one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. He was facing Moon again. “The official investigation concluded that I interrupted a robbery that had escalated to homicide.” Patch Davidson wrinkled his brow. “Do you hold a different opinion?”

The tribal investigator stared out the window at the Misery Range. “I don’t know enough to have a right to an opinion.”

“Well, enough talk of morbid things. Let’s go outside. I would like to show you the grounds.”

THE FOUR
-
WHEEL
-
DRIVE
GroundHog was in its element on a sandstone-paved path that meandered aimlessly across damp grass, under the delicate branches of watered aspens, over a picturesque stone bridge that might have been imported from a Civil War battlefield in Virginia. They passed through a slit in a circular hedge that enclosed a rose garden. The plants were puny, the blossoms small. Patch Davidson explained that even with all the irrigation, the combination of low humidity and short summers was a tough challenge for the delicate plants. The paraplegic halted his machine beside a bush with fairly presentable pink blossoms. He cupped a flower in his hands. “Pitiful, isn’t it?”

The Ute was wondering how much water the BoxCar pumped from the earth every day. All for lush green lawns and lowland flowers, where Bermuda grass and roses were not meant to be.

The politician’s voice was soft, like the rose petals. “Yes. A sad little blossom.” He looked up at the towering man. “But no matter. I did not bring you out here to appreciate the flowers.” He released the prickly branch.

Moon waited for the monologue to continue.

The older man cleared his throat. Fidgeted with the joystick on the GroundHog control panel. “I am obliged to you, Charlie.”

“For what?”

“You damn well know.”

The Ute shook his head. “I don’t.”

“Allow me to refresh your memory. It was some years ago—middle of Reagan’s second term. I was in a red-hot primary campaign. Running against that silly used car salesman from Fort Collins.” He paused, pulled hard on his memory. “I cannot even remember the simpleton’s name. But it does not matter. We were running neck and neck, as the horsy crowd would say. Six days before the polls opened, I was driving a bit too fast down by Ignacio. I had also belted down a couple of drinks. Ran my Caddy over a speed-limit sign, then into a ditch. Well this is bad news. I have a busted radiator. Not to mention a pretty woman in the car with me, who is young enough to be my daughter. I do not know her name, but I am reasonably certain that she is not my wife. And what do I see behind me? Blinking red and blue lights. John Law, coming to mete out justice to the besotted sinner. Well, I know that my political goose is cooked. Probably even my marriage.” He smiled at the Ute. “But Patch Davidson is in luck. The officer in the black-and-white is Charlie Moon.”

The Ute nodded. “Oh, yeah. Now I do remember.”

“You let me off with a stern verbal warning. I was extremely grateful, Charlie. And I remain so.”

“If you had been legally drunk, I’d have hauled you in. The woman wasn’t driving and I thought she must’ve been over twenty-one.”

“Not by much.” The senator smiled at the memory. “You took us to your home on the riverbank. A round house, constructed of Paul Bunyan-sized logs. The ceiling reminded me of a spoked wheel.”

“I still have that place. It’s rented to a librarian.”

“You boiled us a gallon of coffee. I still remember it, Charlie—that was the strongest brew I ever got past my lips. After we were cold sober, you dropped the pretty young thing off at her apartment in Durango. Then you drove me all the way to my office in Granite Creek. You could have ruined me with a casual remark. But in all these years since, you have never breathed a word about it.”

“Senator—”

“Don’t interrupt I am not finished.”

“Go ahead, then. Get it out of your system.”

“And after saving my political hide, did you ever once ask the rich and powerful Senator Patch Davidson for the least little favor?” He shook his head. “You did not.”

“Now that you bring it up, I’ve been thinking—maybe you could put in a word with the president. I think a cabinet position would be just the thing. My aunt Daisy would be awfully proud to tell her friends that I was Secretary of Agriculture.”

“Don’t make light of what I’m trying to tell you.” The politician’s eyes went moist. “You helped me because you are a good and decent man. And you never asked for anything in return. That is why I hold you in the highest esteem, Charlie Moon. And that is why I would trust you with my life.”

Embarrassed, the Ute looked away.

“So I just wanted to say—thank you.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, you’re entirely welcome.” Moon patted the crippled man on the shoulder. “You ever find yourself in another ditch, you give me a call. Now that I’m a serious rancher, I own a fine Farmall tractor. With a long enough chain, I could pull you out of Grand Canyon.”

“I will keep it in mind.”

The dark profile of a lone hawk soared overhead. The hungry creature circled once, then winged its way westward, chasing after something unseen by the eyes of men.

The politician inhaled, then slowly allowed the warm breath to leave his body. “Charlie—I have a problem.”

“Not a bad one, I hope.”

“Sufficient unto the day.” He smiled, as if at some sweet memory. “Inside the Beltway, you know what the high mucky-mucks call the BoxCar?”

Moon shook his head.

“Camp Davidson.”

The Ute returned a blank look.

“It is a reference to Camp David. A place of perfect solitude and security, where the president meets with other big shots. Holds important conferences. Makes earthshaking decisions that fix the fates of nations.”

“Sounds like fun.”

The powerful politician smiled. “It is no exaggeration. Over the years, five presidents have visited the BoxCar. I do not remember how many heads of state. A potful of cabinet members, ambassadors, chiefs of staff, supreme court justices. I host some very important meetings here, Charlie. Most of them deal with extremely sensitive topics. And you—my next-door neighbor—you didn’t know that, did you?”

“Never heard a word about it before today.” From the old cowboy at the front gate.

The senator’s tone was triumphant. “There is rarely ever a hint in the media of what goes on here. The VIPs land at the BoxCar airstrip. We conduct our business. When the work is completed, my guests depart. I have always prided myself on the excellent physical security here at the ranch, which is primarily due to our splendid isolation. And needless to say, I have absolute faith in the reliability and discretion of my staff. But nevertheless, I have a problem.” His mouth clamped shut, as if some part of the politician’s brain was loathe to release another word. After an internal struggle, he continued. “It is possible that sensitive information may have been leaked from high-level meetings here at the BoxCar.” He twirled the black joystick; the Electric GroundHog twirled obediently. The politician glared at his guest. “What do you think of that?”