Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  “I’ve read the medical report on the senator. But maybe you—”

  “You want to know if there’s anything I could add to what’s in his folder.”

  “How’d you guess?”

  “You cops are so predictable.” She stuck the plastic bag under his chin. “Want one?”

  He considered the offering. I’d rather eat a live caterpillar with the hair on it. But just to please her… “Sure.” He selected a sample. That was pretty tasty. “So?”

  She chewed on the junk food. “I can only tell you what you already know. Bottom line—both of the senator’s knees were smashed to jelly.”

  “Any other injuries?”

  “Minor bruises on his rib cage. Another on the left elbow.”

  “But his ribs weren’t broken. Or his elbow.”

  “No. And the bruises were consistent with a fall—which apparently occurred during the assault. If the perp hadn’t smashed his knees, Senator Davidson would’ve been perfectly well in a few days.” She grinned over the Cheez Kurls bag. “I watch all the cop shows on TV. Tell me—do you guys really use hokey words like perp?”

  “All the time.”

  “Why?”

  “The whole word has four syllables. Which is big trouble, ’cause some of us can’t deal with more than a couple. But ‘perp’ just pops right out of a cop’s mouth—easy as spitting a watermelon seed.”

  “You don’t seem to have any trouble with words.”

  “Tribe sent me away to college.” He pointed at the plastic bag. “How about another one of those ugly things?”

  She offered him the remnants. “Anything else I can tell you?”

  He helped himself. “Tell me about the senator’s head.”

  The physician frowned. “What about it?”

  “Were there were any lumps or bumps on his noggin?”

  She squinted up at the fluorescent lights, tried to remember. “Senator Davidson did report that he’d been knocked unconscious, but there was no superficial indication of an injury. We did a whole-body CAT scan. I’m certain it didn’t show any trauma to the cranium. But the shock of the attack may have caused him to temporarily lose consciousness—happens all the time.”

  The tribal investigator turned this information over in his mind. Billy Smoke’s life had been terminated by several blows to the head, by a section of iron rebar that had been found not far from the body. The senator had suffered the same type of injuries to his knees. But if Patch Davidson’s memory of the event could be trusted, he had also been struck on the head—before his knees were smashed. Apparently by some sort of weapon that didn’t leave much evidence of a blow. But this emergency room doctor was probably right. Most likely, Patch had fainted. Moon knew from his own head injury that memories of a traumatic event were murky at best. The most likely explanation was that the blow to the head never happened. But. There were always buts. If it had happened, maybe there were two muggers. One felon wielding a piece of rebar, another with a bag of lead shot. Not that this helped much. Unless one bad guy decided to snitch on the other.

  He had almost forgotten about the surgeon.

  She was watching him. Wondering what he was thinking about.

  Moon was thinking that maybe this investigation might take a little longer than a week.

  He’s sorta cute. And he looks familiar. “I’m pretty sure I’ve seen you here before. In the ER.”

  “Could be.”

  “Did you ever get injured in the line of duty?”

  “Two or three times.”

  “Give me a for instance.”

  “One time I was changing a tire for a lady in a Saab. It was on New Year’s Eve. Bad ice storm. Bumper jack popped loose, banged me on the shin.” Boy, that hurt.

  The surgeon shook her head. “When you were admitted here at Snyder Memorial, it wasn’t on New Year’s Eve. And as I recall, you were unconscious.”

  “That was about three years ago. I got smacked on the bean.”

  “Well, you’ve had plenty of time to recover from a concussion.”

  “You’d think so.” He frowned. “But my aunt Daisy says I’ve not been right since.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  THE SECOND ENCOUNTER

  THE PAIR OF ELDERLY WOMEN WERE SEATED IN A BOOTH BY THE front window, their wrinkled faces pinkly illuminated by a loopy neon script alerting the passing gourmet that this was Angel’s Cafe. In contrast, the hand-painted sign on the roof claimed that the establishment was Angel’s Diner. To locals in Ignacio, it was simply Angel’s—the home of three-quarter-pound Certified Angus beef burgers, mouthwatering banana creme pie, and chili verde that even a displaced Texan could learn to love.

  Angel Martinez, short two waitresses, had come to take the order. He forced a smile under the brushy mustache. “What will you ladies have?”

  Louise Marie LaForte squinted through tiny rimless spectacles at the grease-spotted menu. “Oh my, I don’t know.” She peeked over the optics at her companion. “Daisy, dear, why don’t you go first. That’ll give me a moment to decide.”

  The Ute elder glared over the menu at the owner of Ignacio’s most popular restaurant. “I want something that won’t give me gas.”

  The smile on Angel’s face was beginning to ache. “Perhaps some vegetable soup, and a nice grilled cheese sandwich.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Daisy Perika shot him an accusing look. “That’d block me up for sure. Last time I had one of your cheese sandwiches I couldn’t pass anything for almost a week.”

  The patient man’s forced smile was gradually morphing into a snarl. “I could bring you some prunes.” And a tall glass of heavy-duty drain cleaner.

  It would not have occurred to the respected Ute elder that this Mexican hash-slinger would dare to make sport of her intestinal infirmities. “No, I don’t much like prunes.” She flipped the menu aside. “Bring me a bowl of green chili stew. And a big glass of water. With ice. But not too much ice.” The Ute elder reminded Angel that she and “Frenchy” qualified for the senior citizens’ ten percent discount advertised over the cash register.

  “Of course.” Half a century ago, you qualified. He turned to the smaller of the two women. “And you?”

  Louise Marie requested an iced tea. A small green salad. And—licking her lips—a grilled cheese.

  Daisy smirked at her French-Canadian friend. “You’ll be sorry.”

  Angel hurried away, spewing dark oaths from under his mustache.

  While they waited, Louise Marie chattered about the usual subjects that occupied her mind. Her many ailments, from the sugar diabetes to a touch of Parkinson’s. The prices of everything, how they just kept going up. And those terrible stories in the newspaper. Like the one about the black bear sow who broke into an old woman’s trailer west of Pagosa, mauled the poor thing to death. And chewed up the body something awful. Predation—that was what the medical examiner had said.

  Daisy Perika was only half listening. It was not the gruesome story about the marauding bear that made her skin tingle. The Ute shaman was certain that someone was watching her. She allowed her gaze to sweep over the other patrons in the restaurant. No, they hardly seemed aware of the two elderly women in the booth by the window. The single waitress was busy passing out steaming plates of stacked enchiladas to a family from Arboles. Angel was in the kitchen, whipping the sweating cook to greater efforts. The Ute shaman closed her eyes. She could feel it. The stare was tingling on the left side of her face. Very slowly, she turned her head. Looked out the window.

  And there she was, across the street—the pale, skinny redhead. The one she’d talked to in the discount store, up in Durango. Daisy felt a warm surge of satisfaction. I was right. That woman is from Ignacio. That’s how she knows Charlie used to be a policeman here, and that he’s a tribal investigator now. She must want to tell me something. Well, she’ll just have to come in here. I sure ain’t going to go outside in the chill of the evening just to ask some matukach woman what’s on her silly
mind.

  And so Daisy waited.

  Louise Marie LaForte chattered on about a recipe for candied yams.

  The redheaded white woman across the street stood there. Staring at the Ute elder hard enough to make the side of Daisy’s face itch.

  Like she thinks I should come to her. Not on a hot day in January. But the old woman had a nephew. And Charlie wanted to know who this was, where she lived. Duty called. Daisy pushed herself up from the comfortable seat in the warm restaurant.

  Louise Marie interrupted a fascinating commentary about how a pair of skunks had taken up residence under her house. “You goin’ to the powder room?”

  The Ute woman chuckled. “I never heard anybody call it that except in old movies.” Louise Marie had probably been a grown woman when the new “talkies” were all the rage. “I think the ladies’ room is occupied, so I’ll just go outside.”

  “What for?”

  “To take a pee in the alley.”

  Louise Marie gasped. “Daisy, don’t you dare!”

  “Don’t let Angel leave my chili on the table where it’ll get ice-cold. You tell him to keep it hot till I get back.” Having passed on this instruction, she was gone, the front door flapping behind her.

  As she crossed the street, the Ute elder recalled her previous conversation with this redheaded matukach woman. Charlie Moon would have a mouthful of questions, and she didn’t intend to look the fool. As Daisy approached, the pale young woman stared at her with a penetrating curiosity.

  “Okay, Carrot-Top. I’m out here getting chilled to the bone on your account. So let’s get right to it. First of all, what’s your name and where do you live?”

  FROM THE security of the warm restaurant, Louise Marie LaForte watched her Ute friend through the window. What on earth is she doing out there? It was a rhetorical question. Daisy Perika’s behavior was beyond explaining.

  WHEN THE Ute elder returned from her errand, Angel was placing food on the table.

  After their small meal was finished, Louise Marie got up the courage to ask. “What were you doing across the street?”

  Nosy old hen. Daisy wiped at her mouth with a paper napkin. “Talking to that white woman.”

  The French-Canadian woman ducked her head. “Oh.”

  Her Ute companion explained what had happened in the discount store in Durango. How the skinny, redheaded woman had been watching Charlie Moon. “She wouldn’t tell me much that first time I saw her. But this time, I wasn’t gonna let her leave before I squeezed a few things out of her.”

  “This woman…” Louise Marie hesitated. “Did she tell you anything?”

  Daisy revealed the essence of the brief conversation. Waited for a response that was not forthcoming. She leaned forward, peered across the table at the aged white woman. “You got something on your so-called mind?”

  Louise Marie had several very specific thoughts. But sometimes it was better to keep your mouth shut. “It’s getting late—I think I’d better be getting on home now.”

  She’s acting kinda peculiar. Daisy pressed harder. “Is something wrong?” Probably that cheese sandwich.

  “It’s nothing.” Despite the steamy warmth inside Angel’s Cafe, Louise Marie felt a sickening chill.

  The Ute elder’s eyes glittered with green fire. “You know that redhead, don’t you?”

  The French-Canadian woman clamped her small mouth shut.

  Daisy banged a fist on the table. “We ain’t leaving this greasy spoon till you tell me what you know about her.”

  No response.

  The tougher of the two women assumed a detestably smug expression. “You know you’re going to tell me, so you might as well go ahead and get it done with.”

  Louise Marie summoned all her courage. She stared eye-to-eye at the stubborn Ute woman. Daisy can’t make me tell her. And I won’t. She jutted out a stubborn chin. No matter how hard she begs or threatens. Not if she twists my arm into a pretzel. I absolutely will not say one word. Not in a million, jillion years.

  But of course, she did.

  CHARLIE MOON was at his desk, reading the latest copy of the Stockman’s Report, when the telephone jangled. He pressed the instrument to his ear. “Columbine Ranch.”

  “Charlie—is that you?”

  The tribal investigator smiled at his aunt’s voice. “No. This is a recording. Please leave a brief message when you hear the beep.” He made a beeping sound.

  “Don’t mess with me. I’m weak as watered-down coffee and I need to go to bed. But I won’t be able to get a wink of sleep unless I tell you something first.”

  Another beep.

  “Shut up and listen to what I got to say.”

  “Sorry, your time is up.”

  “I talked to that woman again.”

  “What woman?”

  “That matukach with the stringy red hair. Same one I saw in the Wal-Mart—looking at you.”

  He pushed the trade magazine aside. “What did you find out?”

  She hesitated. Louise Marie had been able to see it right off. Or, looking at it another way, she hadn’t been able to see it. “Charlie, listen to what I’m saying—something about that white woman is wrong.”

  Aunt Daisy thought everyone was odd. On the other hand, the schizophrenic had skipped town and left her medicine behind. “Wrong how?”

  “I’d rather not say.” I’ve already said too much.

  “What makes you—”

  “For one thing, she still won’t tell me her name.”

  “Maybe she’s afraid of somebody.”

  “I’m not sure…” I’m not sure she can remember her name. Sometimes, they can’t.

  Moon listened to an empty silence on the line. “You there?”

  The tribal elder sniffed. “I don’t like it when you ask me all these questions. It makes me nervous.”

  “Okay, let’s do it like this—I won’t ask any more questions. Just tell me what you found out.”

  “Well, she said…” Daisy’s voice trailed away.

  “Said what?”

  “That’s a question.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor—I withdraw the question.” He waited.

  The line was silent while Daisy gathered her scattered thoughts. Finally, a resigned sigh. “She said she saw somebody stealing sand.” There. Now I’ve said it.

  “Stealing sand.” He stared at a calendar tacked above his desk. Above the month was a stunning photograph. Impossibly blue ocean. Silver-white beach. Palm trees. A lovely tanned woman on a pink blanket. I’d like to be there. Without a telephone. “Guess I’d better not ask who was swiping sand.”

  “That matukach girl didn’t say.” Daisy twined a lock of coarse gray hair around her finger. “But she mentioned Arroyo Hondo again. Said that’s where you should look for her.”

  Scott Parris had promised to send some officers to check what was left of the old mining settlement. He printed ARROYO HONDO in block letters. Underlined it. “I won’t ask you if there’s anything else.”

  Daisy gripped the telephone so tightly that her arthritic knuckles ached. There was something else. She told him.

  “She saw someone putting the sand in a what?”

  “You heard me the first time.”

  Moon wrote it down.

  Daisy cleared her throat. “That’s all I have to say.”

  The tribal investigator was relieved to hear this. “Next time you see this young lady, give her my phone number. Tell her she can call collect.”

  “Charlie…”

  “Yeah?”

  The tribal elder took a deep breath. “You be careful.”

  “Careful is my middle name.”

  “I coulda swore it was Jug-Head.” She hung up. Okay. I’ve passed her message on to Charlie. Now I’ll be able to sleep. Hours later, her dark eyes were still wide open. Staring at a place where the ceiling should be. Above her was a dark, infinite abyss. Daisy Perika hoped—prayed—that Charlie Moon would not fall in.

  Chapter Nineteen<
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  THE SANDMAN

  CHARLIE MOON WAS MAKING A BATCH OF FLAPJACKS. WHILE OCCUPIED with this pleasant task, he mused about one of life’s many conundrums. Almost three years ago, he had taken a hard blow on the head. The neurosurgeon had made it clear that the concussion was a serious injury. The clinician had not exaggerated. To this very day, he had not recovered completely. But Patch Davidson claims he is knocked unconscious by some hardcase who had already beat his driver’s head to a pulp—and the politician doesn’t even get a bump on his noggin.

  Life was just one prickly puzzle after another.

  He removed a pancake from the cast-iron skillet, put in on the stack, poured in the last of the batter. These dregs were a lumpy mix: a multitude of miniature islands floating on a thick, yellow sea. The great puddle sizzled and popped around the edges. Gradually, disparate elements coalesced into a single disc-shaped continent.

  Charlie Moon stared at the flapjack sizzling in the iron skillet, but did not see his breakfast. His mind was focused on something far more interesting. Sand. A regular thief might steal a truckload. But another man might just take just a handful. Because that’s all he needed. He watched the pancake burn to a crisp.

  STANDING AT the rear entrance of the Blue Light Cafe, Charlie Moon made a careful inspection of the employees’ parking space. There was not much to see on the graveled lot. Three sedans, a rusty Japanese pickup, a muddy mountain bike chained to an iron post. The blacktopped area for customer parking—where Oscar Sweetwater had been when he heard the senator screaming—was off to his left and around the corner of the cinder-block building. To Moon’s right was Nelson Street, where Billy Smoke had entered the smaller parking lot in the black Lincoln. Across Nelson there was a crumbling brick building. It was shared by an Ace Hardware, the Loco Lobo Pawn Shop, and Martin’s Twenty-Four-Hour Laundromat. In front of him, along the opposite side of the small parking lot, a scraggly row of cottonwoods and elms bordered a drainage ditch. A large sheet-metal building squatted just beyond the ditch. If the yard-high letters painted on the side of the structure were to be believed, this was the P.I.E. CARTAGE WAREHOUSE. The tribal investigator turned to study the rear exit of the Blue Light Cafe, where Senator Davidson had emerged on that dark, wet night, looking for his Ute chauffeur. A metal sign was nailed above the door.