Dead Soul (28 page)

She saw Charlie Moon, clad in traditional beaded buckskins, holding a feathered lance. The tall warrior stood by a spotted mare. Her nephew concentrated all his attention on the beautiful animal, whose thick black mane he was braiding. He seemed unaware of what was behind him—a magnificent tipi whose top reached up to touch the clouds. The conical dwelling, white as the first snow, was decorated with cryptic figures. A helical band of bloodred handprints. Here and there, humpbacked bison snorting fire. Swarming herds of tiny blue horses galloping across an invisible plain. And something that looked like a four-wheeled wooden cart. In the small wagon was a skeletal figure, stripped of all flesh, but with a tuft of white hair radiating from a bulging skull.

The absurd skeleton did not frighten the shaman. That which terrified her came from the mists at the edge of her vision. It was that shadowy, amorphous figure who now routinely visited the world of her dreams—the same evil presence that had beheaded the pale elder.

Daisy tried to call out, warn her nephew. She had no voice.

The nightmare-shadow grew legs. Arms. Took on an almost human form. Placed a large scorpion on the earth behind Charlie Moon. The terrible creature scuttled inside the huge tipi. This done, the evil presence danced a few exaggerated steps—apparently to signify victory—then receded into the mists from whence it had come.

Again, the shaman tried to cry out a warning. She barely managed a mouselike squeak.

Charlie Moon, unaware of the imminent danger, caressed the mare’s neck, whispered something into her ear. The spotted pony nodded her handsome head, whinnied.

Oh, God—it’s too late.
The shaman tensed, waited for the inevitable.

It came.

A blinding flash of white-hot lightning, a horrendous rumble of thunder that shook the earth to its very foundations. Screams, shrieks, groans. Smoke everywhere. And hanging on the smoke, the smell of roasting flesh. But not rabbit flesh.

A great wind came, swept the smoke away.

The earth remained.

The grand tipi was gone.

Charlie Moon was no more.

The spotted pony had likewise vanished.

But not everything had melted away from her horrific vision. The shaman cringed at the pitiful sound of moanings…groanings…terrible pain. Hungry tongues of flame licked at charred flesh. There were great heaps of blackened corpses—more than she could count.

Some twitched.

Chapter Thirty-Three

AN OBSCURE ILLNESS

AMONG THOSE WHO KNEW HIM
,
THERE WERE A VARIETY OF OPINIONS
about Charlie Moon’s problem.

Scott Parris thought that it was probably a virus, maybe a touch of the flu. Give ol’ Charlie a few more days, he’d be right as rain.

Dolly Bushman offered the opinion that the Ute had too many branding irons in the fire. The rancher was simply overworked. Exhausted. He needed to get away, take a long, restful vacation. For once in a blue moon, her argumentative husband agreed.

Jerome Kydmann thought Moon’s problems were related to stress. The boss should slow down, the Kyd said. Delegate more authority. Learn to take things easy.

Alf Marquez had his own take on the matter. The Mexican assured his cowhand companions that the Ute’s trouble came from being too rich. If a man owned very much land, had dozens of people working for him, he was bound to worry all the time. And worry sickened the mind. What the Indian needed was to sell off his properties, marry a young woman, raise a flock of children—and at least once a month, get roaring drunk.

An elderly Arapaho cowman conjectured that Charlie Moon had eaten food that had been cursed by a witch. Or maybe he had gotten the dreaded night sickness, which came from sleeping with the window open. Either way, the cure was well-known. The Ute would benefit from regular sweat baths, and smoking kinnikinnik in a red sandstone pipe.

Had she known about the symptoms, Daisy Perika would not have agreed with any of these diagnoses, or the prescribed cures. She would have pronounced her nephew a victim of ghost-sickness, for which there was no reliable treatment. The aged Ute shaman would not have been so far off the mark.

EVERY NIGHT
,
just moments after he closes his eyes, Charlie Moon drifts off into the same dream. And so it is no wonder that he awakens feeling bone weary. It is very hard on a man—dancing with a redheaded woman who never seems to tire. A woman who will not let go of him until the sun rises.

Chapter Thirty-Four

THE KILLING

THE VISITOR STOOD STIFF
-
LEGGED IN HENRY BUFORD
’
S KITCHEN
, knees knocking like an old well pump.

The BoxCar manager gave the impression of being quite at ease, and this unnerved his guest all the more. Buford was seated in a straight-backed chair, boots flat on the floor, right elbow resting easily on the dining table. He glanced at the pistol pointed at his chest. All five chambers in the cylinder were loaded.
Serves me right—I brought this on myself. But who wants to live to be a hundred.
“What’s the matter?” Buford raised his palms in a mocking gesture of surrender. “There’s nothin’ to be scared of—you got the drop on ol’ Henry. Hell, a blind man couldn’t miss at this range.”

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.”