Dead Soul (13 page)

“Another time, then.”

“Sure.”

“Well, then, I have some things to attend to. I will say my good-bye.”

The Ute watched the electric scooter make its way up the slight grade toward the BoxCar headquarters. The crippled man seemingly a captive in its clutches, the sleek machine beetled around amongst barbed bushes and misshapen shrubs.

Chapter Fifteen

SUPPER WITH HENRY

MOON PULLED THE F
-
150 OFF AT THE BOXCAR MANAGER
’
S LOG
house, parked under an aged cottonwood with bark that was afflicted with a plague of bulbous lumps resembling lemon-sized warts.

Henry Buford emerged onto the front porch before the Ute cut the ignition. The hound did not bother to appear whole—only a long snout and a pair of luminous eyes were visible under the rough plank porch. The beast stretched a skinny neck, strained to produce the croaking bark.

Buford grinned at the shy beast. “C’mon out, Grape-Eye.”

The hound came forth, received an affectionate pat from his master.

The ranch manager welcomed his visitor with a hearty handshake. “C’mon in.” The dog followed the men inside.

The Ute entered a large, old-fashioned parlor. A corroded brass light fixture dangled from the beamed ceiling. Three of the four sixty-watt bulbs pumped out yellowish light that was promptly absorbed in the dark corners. There was a scattering of dusty, mismatched furniture, but the place looked lived in and comfortable. A brick fireplace on the far wall was topped with a granite mantelpiece, flanked by bookshelves that were populated by a few dusty volumes, several yellow stacks of
National Geographic
. “Nice place,” Moon said.

Henry Buford looked around curiously, as if seeing this inner space for the first time. “Some years ago, this was the BoxCar’s main ranch house. But when the senator bought up the spread, I guess he wanted something a dang sight more grand. So Patch built himself that big house down in the valley. I’m glad he did—this is the better place and I have it all to myself.”

Hanging over the fireplace was a grainy, enlarged photographic print of a man who looked exactly like Henry Buford. The likeness was flanked by a pair of pewter candlesticks on the mantelpiece, producing the effect of a shrine. Except that there were no tapers in the candlesticks.

The ranch manager noticed the Ute’s gaze hanging on the picture. “That’s my brother. As you might’ve guessed, we’re twins.” He took a long, wistful look at the framed image, then removed a wedge-shaped piece of stone from the mantel. “Here’s something you might find interesting.”

The Ute held the grooved stone axe head in his hand. The polished surface was mottled with black-and-white spots the size of dimes. “This is a fine artifact—and an unusual type of porphyry. And I’d lay odds it was found east of the Mississippi.”

Buford nodded. “Way back when, my old man was a farm kid in southern Indiana. He used to find arrowheads and stuff. He picked this item up in a cornfield. Funny—this is the only thing of Dad’s I have.”

Moon passed the precious object back to the owner.

The ranch manager placed the artifact back on the mantel. “I got hot stew in the pot, cold brew in the icebox.”

“Stew sounds just fine.” And it smelled good. “I’ll have coffee if you have some, or water.”

Buford grinned, cocked an eyebrow. “What’s this, Charlie—you a member of the Temperance League?”

“I’m an alcoholic.”

Buford’s white face reddened. “I’ll brew us up some coffee.”

“Go right ahead and enjoy your beer. Won’t bother me a smidgen to watch you drink it.”

“No way. You fall off the wagon and start prowling seedy taverns, sleeping in alleys—I don’t want it on my conscience.”

Charlie Moon enjoyed the evening, as did his host. The men ate hearty beef stew, drank strong coffee, listened to an archaic vacuum-tube radio, laughed at dumb jokes. They talked about many things. The cattle business. The weather. Politics. Pickup trucks. Gasoline versus diesel engines. Dogs. And, of course, women and all their mysterious ways.

A thousand words after the sun had gone down, Moon pushed his coffee cup aside. “Henry, I appreciate your hospitality. But I got to be going home.”

The ranch manager stretched his long legs, propped the scuffed heels of his boots on a straight-backed chair. “I don’t believe it—you gonna leave without asking me any questions?”

The tribal investigator offered his host an innocent look. “Questions—about what?”

Buford grinned. “You’re a Ute cop. Billy was a Ute. Regular cops still haven’t found out who canceled his ticket, and crippled Patch. So you’re at the BoxCar to turn over some rocks, see what crawls out. So go ahead—see what you can pry outta me.”

“Okay. If it’ll make you feel better.” The tribal investigator rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers into a massive fist. “What kind of people did Billy hang out with?”

Buford shook his head. “So you’ve heard about that.”

Moon waited.

“Rumor was, some of your tribesman’s buddies was dabbling in the drug business—and I don’t mean they owned a piece of the Rexall Pharmacy down on Main Street.”

“Aside from alcohol, the autopsy didn’t show anything unusual in Billy’s system.”

“Maybe that’s because he thought liquor was quicker.”

“Then he wasn’t a user?”

“Not that I know of. But talk was, he did some peddling. Small stuff.”

“With talk like that going around, how’d he keep his job with the senator?”

“Ol’ Patch, he liked his Indian driver. And nobody tells a rich man what he don’t want to hear.” Buford’s eyes narrowed. “But I’ll tell you straight—if it had been up to me, I’d of fired Billy’s ass a long time ago.”

“I wish you had.”

“Me, too. My hindsight is twenty-twenty.” An amused expression crinkled over the ranch manager’s leathery face. “So what else would you like to know?”

“Can’t think of a single thing to ask you.”

Buford chuckled. “And me just aching to talk my fool head off.”

“Well, I’d hate for word to get out that I didn’t at least try to do my job. Why don’t you tell me about some of the other folks at the BoxCar.”

“There ain’t that many of us—we happy few.”

“Let’s start with the old cowboy who guards the gate.”

Buford rubbed at a stiff bristle of two-day-old beard. “Nothing much to tell. Old Ned’s another drinker, but he’s harmless enough.”

“How about the senator’s nephew—he harmless enough?”

“Allan?” The BoxCar manager thought about it. “He’s pretty much your average young fella. Wants to make something of himself, but can’t manage to keep his attention focused on anything long enough to see it through. Allan has attended a half dozen universities, graduated from nary a one. He hangs out with all kinds of weirdos, supports any political cause that’s liable to embarrass the senator, travels around the world to exotic places, tinkers with computers and electronic gadgets. His latest ambition is to qualify as a skilled mechanic—and he shows some promise. You seen his fire-engine-red hog?”

Moon nodded. “Passed me on the road.”

“Going pretty fast, was he?”

“Carrying the mail.”

“Someday he’ll wrap that fancy toy around a tree. But Allan can take that machine apart blindfolded, put it back together, and it still runs.”

“Impressive.”

“Yeah, he’s got a talent for stuff like that. Lately, the little twerp’s been pestering me for work to do around the BoxCar. Now and then, I let him help me with a job—but only when I’m looking over his shoulder.”

“He live in the BoxCar headquarters?”

“Sure, Allan’s got an apartment in the big house. But when the kid’s on the ranch—which is maybe half the time—he spends most of his hours over at the old line shack.”

“Where’s that?”

Buford jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “East side of the property, bottom of the Notch. It’s a smelly dump, which makes the senator pretty unhappy.”

Moon smiled at memories of his own youth.
Which is probably Pearson’s main reason for hanging out there.
“What does he do over there all by himself?”

“Don’t know for certain; contemplates his belly button, I guess.” Henry Buford looked out a darkened window toward the Misery Range. “I should probably go over to the line shack from time to time and check up on the place, but I don’t. For one thing, Allan’s not an employee—he’s what’s left of the senator’s family. For another, he likes his privacy.” Buford looked around his kitchen. “I guess that’s the one thing him and me got in common.”

“Sounds like you don’t like the young man.”

“Men, I either like or I don’t. Allan’s a pissant. He never takes a bath, he don’t eat meat, and he hates dogs.” The ranch manager glanced at his sleeping hound. “Especially ol’ Grape-Eye here.”

Moon pushed the probe deeper. “I understand Pearson’s an orphan.”

“Yeah.” Buford tapped a teaspoon on his coffee cup. “His parents died about ten years ago.”

The tribal investigator wondered how much this man would tell him. “They die at the same time?”

“Yeah.” Buford grimaced. “House fire.”

“Somebody smoking in bed?”

He avoided the tribal investigator’s intense gaze. “From what I heard, the investigation was inconclusive.” He started to speak, rephrased his words. “The senator believes the fire was accidental.”

Charlie Moon watched the man’s eyes. “Does the senator believe his wife’s death was accidental?”

Buford took a sip of bitter coffee. “Why do you ask?”

“I hear she fell down the stairs. Broke her neck.” Not long after the nephew showed up at the BoxCar.

There was a prickly silence before the ranch manager responded. “House fires. Women falling down stairs. That kind of subject don’t help my digestion. Let’s talk about something more pleasant.”

“I’m all for that,” Moon said. “Tell me about Miss James.”

The ranch manager closed his eyes to call up the woman’s image. “That little gal—now she’s a sweet Georgia peach. Treats everybody nice, minds her own business. And she takes good care of the senator.”

Moon looked at the ceiling. Then, with studied casualness: “What’s Miss James’s first name?”

“Miss.” Buford laughed at Moon’s expression. “And from what I’ve been able to find out, she don’t much care for us rough-around-the-edges cowboy types.”

The Ute tried hard to grin, but couldn’t do it. “You had a go at her, then?”

“Sure, I did.” Buford snickered like a teenager. “Hell, I may look old and worn-out, but I ain’t dead yet.”

Charlie Moon waited for more.

The spurned man sighed. “Last year, I asked her if she’d like to go to the Roundup Rodeo with my honorable self. Her refusal was what cultured folks call
polite
. But Mrs. Buford’s little boy knows when he’s been told to get lost.” He drained the cup. “Anybody else you want the lowdown on?”

“How about the manager of this high-tone outfit?”

“That’s a fancy title. Officially, I’m not even on the senator’s payroll. In exchange for what few services I provide, I get the use of this old ranch house. And all the groceries and supplies I need.”

“But no actual pay?”

Buford shook his head. “Not a greenback dollar. But I got a disability pension from the government.”

Moon thought the sturdy man did not look disabled.

The ranch manger read his thoughts. “I got a back injury from when I was in the Marines. And no, I didn’t get wounded in action. I slipped on some sawdust and fell off a loading dock in East St. Louis. Got an honorable discharge and a monthly check for the rest of my life. It ain’t much, but a man with room and board don’t need a lot.”

“So you give up life as a grunt to run the ranch for Patch Davidson.”

“Not right away. I had another job in between.”

“Ranching?”

“Nope. I was at Defense Intelligence Agency for almost ten years.”

“DIA, huh? Must’ve been interesting work.”

Buford smiled at the probe. “Oh yeah, it was great fun. Spent most of my time driving tight-assed generals around D.C.”

“And you prefer the BoxCar to the nation’s capital.”

“You said it right.”

“You think a lot of the senator, don’t you?”

Buford picked his words with care. “Patch Davidson is the most important person in my life. If it wasn’t for him…” He clamped his jaw shut.

Moon let that dog lie.

A clock on the wall struck ten times.

“Thanks for the meal.” The Ute got to his feet. “It’s about time for me to hit the road.”

“I’ve enjoyed your company, Charlie.” The BoxCar manager picked up a bowie knife from the bread platter, turned the glistening blade on a hard, callused palm. His voice was crisp as a September breeze at the crack of dawn. “Before you go, there’s something you need to know. Somebody harms one gray hair on that old man’s head, I will rip him from gills to asshole and then some. When I get done, there won’t be enough left of the bastard for a peckerwood’s breakfast.”

Charlie Moon looked deep into the flint-hard eyes, and knew this was no idle boast. Henry Buford would make a fine friend. But God help his enemy.

Chapter Sixteen

A JOB OF WORK

THE SUN WAS AN HOUR HIGH WHEN DOLLY BUSHMAN HEARD THE
Ford F-150 pickup rumbling along the graveled ranch lane. The boss usually stopped on his way out, and Charlie was always game for some coffee. The plump, middle-aged woman went to the screened door, wiped her hands on a red cotton apron. She watched Charlie Moon’s long legs take the three porch steps in a single stride. He looked to be in good spirits.

“Come inta house and sit yourself down.” The ranch foreman’s wife gestured to indicate a sturdy chair at the kitchen table.

He hung the everyday black Stetson on a battered coatrack, seated himself. “Where’s Pete?”

“My old man is off with some of the hands”—She pointed—“working on one of them irrigation ditches over by the west alfalfa.”

“Hay crop’s looking pretty good this year.”

“That’s what I hear.” This slender man was looking thinner than usual. She gave him a worried look. “You want me to whip you up some breakfast? I could fix some eggs and ham.”

“I should say no. But I’d hate to hurt your feelings.”

“I got a half pan of biscuits I made fresh this morning. They’re still warm.”

“Well, if you’d hold a gun to my head, I’d eat one or two.”

She pulled a cookie sheet out of the oven, shoved it in front of him. “Want some butter?”

“If it’ll make you feel better.”

She unwrapped a stick of Grandma’s Pride, put it on a saucer.

Moon opened a biscuit with a spoon.

The expert cook sliced off a half-inch slab of ham, plopped it into one of her well-seasoned Tennessee Forge cast-iron fry pans. She cracked four eggs for the black skillet’s twin. There was a delicious sizzling. “I expect Pete will be back in a hour or so.”

“Can’t stay that long.” He took a wistful look out the window. “I need to get into Granite Creek while the sun’s still low.”

Dolly Bushman snapped a faded dish towel, wiped at a plate from her husband’s breakfast. “What’s the big hurry?”

“Got an assignment from the tribal chairman.” He gestured with a biscuit. “Today, I am going to investigate the killing of Billy Smoke. By this time next week, I expect to come to a thoughtful conclusion.”

She flipped the ham slab over. More sizzling and popping. “All in seven days?”

“That’s all the time I can spare from things I need to be doing.”

“Like what?”

“Like managing this ranch.”
Like fishing
.

She hunched her shoulders. “Hmmph.”

“Dolly, I heard that
hmmph
.”

“Well, I’m glad your ears are still working.”

“What did this particular Hmmph mean?”

She told him. “A job worth doing is worth doing well.”

“Now that’s a pretty proverb. Here’s her twin sister. Don’t spend seven months doing a job than can be finished in seven days—with time out to rest on Sunday.”

Her brow pinched into a suspicious frown. “I never heard that one.”

“It’s in the book. Look it up.”

“Charlie Moon, I never know when you’re teasing me.” She slapped his back with the dish towel.

He helped himself to another biscuit. “Ma’am, d’you have any jam?”

“I got strawberry preserves. And blackberry. And some orange marmalade.”

“That’ll do just fine.”

THE MEDICAL EXAMINER

CHARLIE MOON
was about to knock on the hundred-year-old oak door when it was jerked open by an elfin, white-haired man who appeared to be the same age as the varnished wood. “Well, what’n hell do
you
want?”

The tribal investigator removed his black hat. “Sir, I am selling magazine subscriptions to work my way through medical school—and you’re my last customer today. If you’ll purchase just three cut-rate subscriptions to
Popular Quack Medicine
, I’ll receive this enormous cash prize, become a rich and famous heart surgeon, and help the living stay that way. If you don’t take pity on me, I may have to become a pathologist.”

“Don’t get fresh with me, Charlie Moon.” The medical examiner turned away with a groan. “Come inside and let me show you something dreadful.”

“No, thank you.” The Ute had seen too many dreadful things in the ME’s basement laboratory.

“Oh, don’t be such a sissy—it’s not a cadaver.”

Thus reassured, Moon followed the plump, round-shouldered man down the dark hallway past a parlor on the left, a spacious office on the right. The paneled hall terminated in a high-ceilinged kitchen that had been remodeled in 1898. There was a sizable puddle of water on the tile floor. It was trying to get larger, and succeeding. “So that’s why you’re in such a nasty mood.”

“I am an old man who suffers from rheumatism, gout, and general distemper—so nasty is not a
mood
with me, it is a permanent condition.” Dr. Walter Simpson wagged a finger in his guest’s face. “And don’t tell me to call in a plumber. I telephoned the scoundrel almost two hours ago, and as you can plainly see, he ain’t showed up yet.”

Moon put his hat on a heavy pine table, poked head and shoulders under the sink. Water sprayed into his face. He turned off the cold water supply valve; the spray slowed to a drip. “You got a good-sized adjustable wrench?”

“Just a minute.” There was the sound of wet slippers pattering away. Presently, the physician returned with a plastic toolbox. He shoved it under the sink. “Have a look in there.”

Moon unclipped the lid. All the tools looked new and unused. There was no adjustable wrench, but he found a pair of channel-lock pliers, tightened a brass nut on the fitting. Thankfully, it did not break. He got to his feet with a grunt.

Dr. Simpson was swiping at the floor with a soggy mop. “Did you really fix it?”

“For now. But you better get that plumber to replace some of these antique pipes and fittings.”

The ME’s cherubic face reflected his inner bliss. “Can I fix you a cup of coffee?”

“At least.”

“I have some highly fattening pastries. Apple fritters. Cinnamon rolls.”

“Bring ’em on, doc.”

Nine minutes later the plumber knocked on the door. After a three-minute stay, the skilled craftsman departed.

Dr. Simpson’s smile was also gone. He waved an invoice in Moon’s face, as if the Ute was to blame for this outrage. “This is simply scandalous. Sixty-eight dollars and some odd cents for making a call—and he didn’t do a damned thing.” He glared at his guest. “I shouldn’t have let you monkey around with my plumbing. I paid a professional to do the job and got an amateur fix.”

Moon took the last bite of a sugar-crusted apple fritter. “Life is tough.”

“Spare me the pithy philosophical observations. Why are you here?”

“You remember examining Billy Smoke’s body?”

“I am going to take that as a rhetorical question. Otherwise, I would be forced to respond with some such acid remark as: No, I have forgotten all about the most notorious and brutal murder to occur within Granite Creek city limits for almost a decade.” About nine years ago, there had been that RMP graduate student. Poor, poor girl. But that didn’t bear thinking about.

Moon wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. “Tell me about Billy’s corpse.”

Simpson shifted to his professional persona. “There was no mystery about the cause of death. Senator Davidson’s chauffeur was struck once on the temple, twice on the forehead. Once on the bridge of his nose. Any of which would have led to his demise, but the trauma inflicted on the temple resulted in virtually instantaneous death.” Walter Simpson took a sip of mint tea from a delicate porcelain cup. “The instrument of murder was more or less cylindrical. Diameter about an inch and a half. And heavy.” He paused, glancing sideways at his visitor. “Like a tire iron. Or an old-fashioned lead pipe.”

The tribal investigator wondered whether the old man had forgotten that the murder weapon had been found at the scene. “Or maybe a section of rebar.”

The medical examiner frowned over his teacup. “Well of course I know that a piece of iron reinforcement bar was used in the crime. Blood from Mr. Smoke’s head and the senator’s legs was recovered from the infernal thing.” The old man’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “But I have pipes on my mind right now.”

Moon did not bite.

Simpson leaned forward. “And speaking of pipes, would you like to hear my well-informed view on a matter of considerable economic and social importance?”

“No, I would not. In fact, I’d rather have a red-hot scorpion crawl into my ear and hatch out three dozen youngsters. But I know that won’t stop you.”

“Very well, since you encourage me. I contend that plumbers should be regulated. More particularly, I am in favor of firm price caps. Say…twenty dollars an hour. No minimum price for house calls. If they do not fix the problem, they should not be paid one brass shekel.”

“Shekels were generally silver. Or gold.”

“Don’t show off, it is unbecoming in one of limited erudition.”

“You’re right. I don’t even know the meaning of the word.” Moon reached for a cinnamon roll. “How about pill pushers—you in favor of a price cap for them?”

A merry twinkle danced in Dr. Simpson’s bright blue eyes. “Physicians, men and women of the cloth, teachers in public schools—and let us not forget librarians—should get a special rate from the local pipe-twisters. Say…wholesale price on parts and ten dollars an hour for labor.”

“I think you missed the point, doc. Issue I raised was whether there should be a cap on services provided by an erudite sawbones like yourself.”

“No, you did not.”

“I did not?”

“Let me clarify. You were clearly suggesting that those involved in vital services to humankind—such as myself—should receive reduced rates from otherwise exploitative plumbers. And with due humility, I am obliged to agree with your point.”

“Guess I was confused about what I was thinking. Thanks for setting me straight.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I won’t. So what sort of a discount should an ex-policeman turned rancher get on his plumbing bills?”

“The question is moot. As you have already demonstrated whilst toiling under my sink, such rough-and-ready folk can manage their own repairs.”