Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  “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?”

  Moon thought about it for a moment. “Sounds like a problem.” But not my problem.

  The senator’s face twisted into a painful grimace. “I am not talking about leaks to the press about the latest scandal in the Oval Office—or which member of the president’s cabinet did not get invited to the British ambassador’s annual tea-and-crumpets bash in the limey lilac garden because last year at the same party he got sick and vomited on a precious stone lion.” As if someone might be hiding in the rose bushes, he lowered his voice. “Charlie—it is being asserted that this sensitive information has been revealed to representatives of a foreign power.”

  Moon realized that his initial forebodings had been right on the mark. I should’ve stayed at home.

  “This is an extremely serious issue.” Senator Davidson wagged the dead cigar like a baton. “Potentially, everyone on my staff is suspect. Which, quite naturally, is a reflection on my unblemished personal integrity.”

  The Ute put on his best poker face.

  Patch Davidson chewed on the cold cigar. “It is simply too bizarre, but I cannot rule out the possibility that discussions inside my home are being monitored.” He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the rose garden. “That is why we are having this conversation in my rose garden. And why I need your help.”

  Uh-oh. “I’ll give you some free advice that’s worth twice the price. Contact the FBI. Tell them about your concerns.”

  “I have already done that.”

  The tribal investigator was both pleased and surprised. “Good move. You can leave the rest to them.”

  “My office in Washington is a fairly straightforward matter. I will provide written permission for entry, and a key. After working hours, the FBI technicians will show up with their equipment, do whatever it is they do, then depart well before dawn. No one on my staff—not even my D.C. chief of security—will be the wiser. But there is no straightforward way to have a half dozen federal cops checking out the BoxCar headquarters without raising an eyebrow here and there. My primary concern is that someone in my employ will realize that the FBI is checking the house for espionage gadgetry—and draw the obvious conclusion.”

  Moon nodded. “And next week, the story’s in the Washington Post.”

  “Charlie, my staff is as competent and professional as that of any senator on the Hill. Which is to say that they simply cannot resist the temptation to gossip. And if word gets out that I have a security problem at my western headquarters—well, its hard to exaggerate the potential impact. The immediate effect would be that I would have to cancel several extremely urgent meetings. And beyond the inconvenience and embarrassment, there would certainly be political ramifications. The very hint of a security scandal—right here under my nose—could cost me five or six percentage points in the next election. And that could easily get me bounced out of the Senate.”

  Moon thought it time to raise the obvious question. “Why are you telling me about this?”

  Davidson moved the GroundHog forward slowly, bumping it gently against Moon’s leg. “Because you can help me.”

  “I don’t see how.” And don’t want to know.

  “For this damned bug check to work—both on a technical and a political level—nobody outside the FBI can know the counterespionage technicians are in my house. Aside from myself, of course, and the president. And the thing must be done quite soon—within the next few days. I must be in Washington for the next couple of weeks. And I damn well am not going to allow the FBI to sn
oop all over my house unsupervised. Gad, for all I know, those lawyers-tuned-gunslingers may plant bugs of their own!”

  Moon smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t—you don’t have to worry because these federal gumshoes will not be snooping around inside your home. Peering under the rugs with big magnifying glasses. Vacuuming dust out of your closet. Copying your computer disks.”

  “Senator, I’ve worked with agents at the Bureau for years. Ninety-nine percent of ’em are straight-arrow cops. They go by the rules.”

  Davidson put on a pleading look. “Charlie, I absolutely must have someone here to keep an eye on them—someone whose discretion is beyond question. And,” he added slyly, “you are my closest neighbor. All I am requesting is some neighborly assistance. Metaphorically speaking, I find myself stuck in another ditch. I need you to crank up that big tractor you boasted about. Pull me out.”

  This was a persistent old man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted. “This ain’t exactly a ditch we’re talking about.”

  “All I ask at the moment is your consent to act as my official liaison to the FBI. It is just barely possible, of course, that more would be required of you than merely spending a few hours with the feds while they search my home for hidden electronic devices. I would also want you to interact with them on any related matters that may come up.”

  “You mean like if they actually find a flea-sized microphone in a plastic olive?”

  “Exactly.” The expert angler smiled, prepared to set his hook. “The less detail I know of such issues, the better for me. It is a matter of plausible deniability—should some media shark question me about foreign bugs in my home, I must be able to shrug the notion off as so much nonsense. Nor would I want anyone on my staff to be privy to such titillating information. Charlie, you are the man I need.”