Dead Soul (29 page)

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 mention 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—”

She shouted in his ear. “He was a president of the United States of America.”

“Which one?”

“Look at a dollar bill,” she snapped.

“George Washington?” The grin went ear to ear. “Well, don’t worry about him—I’m pretty sure he’s already dead. Has been for quite some time.” He heard a rude suggestion in the Ute tongue, a sharp click in his ear as she hung up.

Charlie Moon put the cell phone back into his pocket.
Poor old woman; she spends too much time by herself
. Daisy invariably refused his offers to live at the Columbine.
I need to get someone to stay with her.
He wondered where he would find a sensible person who would take on the job of looking after an ill-tempered old woman who lived in a little trailer way out yonder at the mouth of
Cañon del Espiritu
. On top of that, it would have to be someone Daisy would allow in her home. Which, since she couldn’t get along with anyone on the face of the earth, made it a daunting challenge indeed.

The pickup topped a rise in the undulating prairie. The western horizon was a deep shade of midnight blue. Hanging over the Misery Range was a single, oddly shaped cloud. It looked like nothing in particular, but the human imagination is compelled to analyze and categorize such amorphous forms. A healthy man’s mind might have seen a cauliflower. A huge peanut. Even a fist. The tribal investigator saw a crippled Senator Davidson riding his Electric GroundHog across the endless sky. Moon shook his head, as if to dislodge the sickly illusion.
This is really pitiful. I keep on this way, I’ll end up like Aunt Daisy, seeing things where there’s nothing to see. Believing my nightmares are real.
He recalled the ancient Ute prescription for good mental health. Six times, he repeated the mantra:
Don’t think bad thoughts.
Being a product of his times, he added a positive corollary.
Think good thoughts.
And so he did.
Everything is going to be fine.

Immediately the pickup engine coughed. Took hold again. Stuttered.

Stopped.

As the power steering hydraulics lost pressure, Moon felt the wheel stiffen in his hands. The truck coasted to a gradual stop on a shoulder where dry grasses leaned flat in the wind. He tried the ignition. Nothing. Dead as last year’s hope for a better world. He watched frigid droplets of liquid water ricochet off the F-150’s rusty hood, splatter against the windshield. The bomblets were gradually transformed into prickly shards of ice.
Ain’t this just swell. Stalled thirty miles from home and it’s sleeting parallel to the ground.

Moon buttoned his jacket to the collar, got out, lifted the hood.
Could be the battery’s given up the ghost. Or maybe the alternator’s not pumping electricity.
He tried to remember:
When I turned the key, did I hear the starter solenoid click?
He pulled at the high voltage cable sprouting from the autotransformer coil. The thing looked sound enough. Ditto for the spark plug cables. Sleet pelted his neck. Icy water dribbled down his back.
If I’m lucky, it’ll be a bad battery connection.

Charlie Moon spent twenty minutes cleaning both battery terminals, tightening the cable connections. He got into the cab, slammed the door, turned the ignition switch—cranked the engine to life.
All right—things are looking up
. He pulled onto the highway, shifted up to second gear. With no worries to occupy it, his mind shifted to neutral. Seemingly pointless associations were made. White goop. Lead hydroxide carbonate. Lead. Battery terminal. Lead battery terminal. Lead…

The needle got stuck.

Lead battery terminal.

Lead battery terminal.

Lead battery terminal.

The tribal investigator jammed the brake pedal to the floor, skidded to a stop on the slippery highway.

My God. Surely not…

He sat in the pickup, unable to believe what he was thinking. The sleet departed. The snow came to call, accompanied by its old friend the wind. A minor gale whistled around the sharp edges of the pickup, howled like a pack of starving wolves on a bloody trail. The human being was oblivious to nature’s drama.

As one in a dream, Charlie Moon removed a cell phone from the glove compartment, entered a number. There was an almost immediate answer. Miss James’s voice was sweet and warm.

He identified himself. “Are you in Washington—with the senator?”

“Why, yes, Charlie. It is so nice to hear from you. Where are—”

“I need to know something.”

The smile went out of her voice. “What?”

“Is there a fixed schedule for servicing the senator’s electric scooter?”

“I’m not sure—Henry Buford takes care of things like that.”

“Things like what?”

“Well, from time to time, Henry charges the batteries. The senator sometimes forgets to plug his machine in when he goes to bed.”

“Were the batteries charged before Patch went to Washington?”

“I don’t know. But I believe Allan did replace one of the batteries.”

“Allan? I thought we were talking about Henry Buford.”

There was a brief silence. “Allan said Henry asked him to do it.”

Moon chewed on this. It had a bad taste. “Does that seem likely?”

“What do you mean?”

“Has Henry ever asked the senator’s nephew to do anything like that before?”

“Well, now that you mention it, no. Henry doesn’t trust anyone to mess around with electrical or mechanical things.” She laughed. “Henry especially doesn’t trust Allan.”

“This is very important—which battery did the senator’s nephew replace?”

“There’s more than one?”

“There are two. The main unit and a backup.”

“Oh. Is it important which one was replaced?”

It has to be the backup.
“Where is the senator?”

“At the moment, he’s with the rest of the Senate in the House Chamber, waiting to hear the president’s speech to the joint session.”

Moon felt his stomach churn. “What speech?”

“His address on Social Security and Medicare. Wait a minute, I’ll check the closed-circuit TV.” The line went silent, then: “The president is just entering the chamber. And there’s Senator Davidson in the front row.” She waited for a response from the Ute. “Charlie?”

Aunt Daisy had dreamed about an old man in a wheeled cart. A great tipi vanishing. Great heaps of burned bodies. And…George Washington’s head chopped off. Washington
decapitated.
For a brief interval, Moon was deaf—and had the eerie sense that his body had turned to stone.

“Charlie, are you there?”

Moon heard his voice respond in mechanical fashion. “Contact the Secret Service. Tell them there’s an explosive device in Senator Davidson’s electric scooter. They’ll want to call me.” He recited his cell phone number to the senator’s assistant.

He could feel the mix of fear and disbelief in her voice. “Why on earth do you—”

“Make the call right now. I’m heading for the BoxCar.” He pressed the End button on the cell phone, terminating the conversation.

Several miles down the road, the telephone emitted an electronic chirp. The tribal investigator pressed the instrument against his ear. “I’m here.”

The voice on the other end was calm as a Sunday morning. “Am I speaking to Mr. Charles Moon?”

“You are.”

“I’m Special Agent Adams, United States Secret Service. Our conversation is being recorded.”

“No problem.”

“You will understand the need to verify your identity, Mr. Moon. Please give me your Social Security number.”

The Ute recited nine digits.

Adams passed the information on to Research. “Now tell me what you know about a threat against Senator Davidson.”

“I have reason to believe someone has rigged an explosive device on his electric scooter.”

The Secret Service agent’s response was calm, matter-of-fact, as if they were discussing a weather report predicting sunny days. “What leads you to this conclusion?”

“A while back, a building at local airport construction site was destroyed—fire and explosion. Probable arson. A chunk of lead was found just outside the burned area. Looked like it might’ve been a large-caliber bullet. But it wasn’t a bullet. It was what was left of a battery terminal.”
Or a fishing sinker.

Agent Adams was scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. “Battery terminal.”

“I believe the explosive device is concealed in a twelve-volt storage battery.” Moon’s mouth was dry as cork. “The airport explosion was probably a test.”

“Test?”

Said out loud, this was starting to sound pretty thin. Feeling more and more the imbecile who had leaped into an abyss, the tribal investigator continued his free fall. “Before the bad guy put an explosive battery in the senator’s electric scooter, he had to be sure it’d work.”

“Electric scooter?”

What is this guy, some kinda damn echo chamber?

“Mr. Moon, are you still there?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have any hard evidence to back up these allegations?”

There was a flinty edge on the Ute’s words. “You’ll find your hard evidence in Senator Davidson’s scooter. It’s in the House Chamber, parked right up front—just a few yards from the president of the United States.”

“In the absence of supporting evidence, I don’t—”

Moon gripped the cell phone so hard the sturdy plastic cracked. “We’re wasting time talking. You’ve got a choice to make—do something useful while there may still be a few minutes left, or just sit on your ass and wait for the explosion.”

“I understand your frustration, Mr. Moon, and I assure you that decisions are being made even as we speak.” There was a brief interruption as the agent paused to listen to an instruction from a superior, then: “I need more information. Is there any reason to believe that someone has actually installed an explosive device in Senator Davidson’s—”