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 a
t 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—”
“I talked to the senator’s personal assistant a few minutes ago. Miss James confirmed that one of the storage batteries was replaced on his electric scooter. This happened a coupla days ago—right before he left for D.C.”
“Is a battery replacement unusual?”
“Not if the ranch manager had done it. Henry takes care of stuff like that.”
There was a distinct tone of interest in the distant voice. “Who switched the batteries?”
“Allan Pearson. The senator is his uncle.”
“You are suggesting that the senator’s nephew has placed an explosive device in his electric scooter?”
“I’m not suggesting—I’m telling you straight out.”
“But what would be the nephew’s motive—”
“I don’t know. And at the moment, I don’t really give a damn.”
“Do you have any information about the nature of the explosive device?”
“Like what?”
“Type and quantity of explosive material. How will the detonator be triggered—by remote control or timer?”
“I don’t have the least notion. All I can tell you is you’d better do something right now.”
“Tell me precisely where you are.”
About forty-five minutes from being arrested for filing a nuisance report with the United States Secret Service. “About forty-five miles west of Granite Creek, Colorado. I’m headed toward the BoxCar—that’s Patch Davidson’s ranch.”
“Keep the line open, Mr. Moon.”
THE TRIBAL investigator turned onto the BoxCar lane, braked the pickup to a skidding halt by the closed gate. The gatehouse was dark inside. Moon banged on the door. Nothing. He turned the knob. Locked. The big man took a step backward, aimed the heel of his boot at a spot just below the doorknob. Drove it home. Wood splintered, fragments of the cast-iron lock mechanism went flying. He unholstered the .357 Magnum revolver, entered the shack, yelled: “Ned Rogers—you in here?”
No response. He switched on the lights. The room that served as the gatekeeper’s duty post was not occupied. Moon checked the small bedroom, and a tiny bathroom that smelled strongly of aftershave and urine. Still no Rogers. Which was not surprising. With the BoxCar effectively shut down in the senator’s absence, the gatekeeper had probably taken some time off. Moon returned to the room that served as Ned Rogers’s lookout station, staring out the north window. Maybe I’m way off base. He heard Agent Adam’s muffled voice calling his name. The tribal investigator pulled the live cell phone from his jacket pocket, jammed it against his ear. “I’m here.”
“Mr. Moon, have you arrived at the senator’s ranch?”
“I’m at the BoxCar gatehouse. Ranch headquarters is another six miles up the lane.” The log house where Henry Buford lived was closer to four. He really did not want to know but…“Have you guys done anything?”
There was a brief hesitation. “On the basis of your call, Mr. Moon, the Senate Chamber has been evacuated.”
God help me. If there is no bomb, I am in deep, deep trouble. The tribal investigator inhaled a long breath. “You want me to see if I can find Pearson?”
“We do. Miss James informs us that the senator’s nephew has an apartment in the main residence on the ranch property, and also a small house in a more remote location.”
“Yeah. The line shack.”
“We have not been able to reach Mr. Pearson by telephone in the main residence, and we understand there is no telephone in his other residence.”
Moon watched the northern sky—a pale blue sea, here and there whirling swirls of pink and purple. The high country air was charged with electric premonition. Something unseen whispered in his ear, a cold finger prickled the hair on his neck. The Ute was certain that something was about to happen. Something very unpleasant.
In the background of the Ute’s consciousness, the federal agent’s voice droned on. “We would appreciate it if you would make an attempt to contact Mr. Pearson—inquire about his reason for installing a replacement battery in the senator’s electric scooter, then get back to us. And keep in mind that so far as we know, no crime has been committed. We will merely wish to interview Mr. Pearson at length.” The special agent added ominously: “And yourself, of course.”
Moon felt cold. Like dead meat. “Anything else I can do for you?”
“Not at the moment, but keep your cell phone avail—” There was a sudden, dead silence, as if the line had been disconnected.
For sixteen seconds that lasted half a lifetime, the Ute waited.
Agent Adams voice barked in his ear. “Mr. Moon?”
“I’m still here.” Wish I was somewhere else.
“I am informed that there has been a tremendous explosion in the Senate Chamber.”
“Was anyone—”
“There were no casualties among the senators. But two of our agents and several members of the Capitol Police Bomb Squad are unaccounted for and presumed dead.” The Secret Service agent’s tone was now hard. “I understand that you are a sworn officer of the law.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you armed?”
“I am.”
“The official position of the United States Secret Service is that Mr. Pearson is presumed innocent. If you should have the opportunity, we request that you detain this individual as a material witness.” There was a pregnant silence. “But as we realize that Mr. Pearson might turn out to be extremely dangerous, you are expected to use due caution in any attempt to take him into custody. I hope you understand what I’m telling you.”
The tribal investigator understood perfectly. This was an unofficial, personal request from a furious federal cop who knew that the wealthy senator’s nephew would probably never be indicted, much less go to trial. If the bastard resists arrest, kill him.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
FIRESTORM
IF THE V8 ENGINE HAD BEEN PROPERLY TUNED, HE WOULD HAVE been flying along at eighty miles an hour. As it was, the F-150 speedometer was bouncing about the sixty-five mark. Charlie Moon was bouncing about the c
ab. The rational part of his brain reminded him that it was not sensible to drive so fast on the rough road. Another, more elemental part of that mysterious organ urged hurry hurry hurry. Praying that he wouldn’t blow a bald tire and end up in some deep arroyo with a broken neck, the tribal investigator kept the pedal on the floorboard.
He was less than a minute from Henry Buford’s home when a mushroom of coal-black smoke sprouted up, blotting out the northern horizon. An unseen hand painted a fiery smear across the turquoise sky. The Ute investigator topped the ridge over the shallow valley dotted with cottonwoods. The log house was a roaring mass of fire underneath a boiling column of acrid smoke.
If Henry had been inside, he was way past helping.
After finding no sign of life at the edge the roaring inferno, Moon continued on toward the BoxCar headquarters, where recent history was about to be repeated. As he topped the crest of the ridge overlooking the green oasis, the wealthy man’s mansion suffered an even more violent fate than Buford’s log house. The booming explosion tossed red roof tiles for a thousand yards; a rolling mixture of intensely blue fire and pitch-black smoke grew into a mile-high poisonous mushroom. After a brisk west wind cleared away some of the ground-level smoke, the Ute was surprised to see that none of the outer sandstone walls were standing. After a fruitless attempt to get near the superheated ruins, he turned east on a dirt lane, aiming the F-150 in the general direction of Dead Mule Notch—and Alan Pearson’s line shack. There were several crossroads and forks in the rough lane. He stayed with the electric power line.
Thirty bone-jarring minutes later, the road began to peter out. He followed the utility poles into a shallow canyon between a pair of sandstone mesas that extended out from the sides of the Notch. After passing through a thicket of scrub oak, the tribal investigator pulled the pickup to a jerking halt in front of a ramshackle structure. This had to be it. The sad-faced little building wore a peaked hat of rusty tin; the walls were made of vertical, creosote-soaked pine slabs. At one corner of the structure, a fifty-five-gallon oil drum was placed to catch water from a rusty downspout. A lime-green propane tank was nudged up against the west wall; the metal cylinder seemed to be doing its level best to hold the leaning structure upright. Thirty paces to the rear, there was a wooden privy with a door hanging on a single rusty hinge. He got out of the pickup, made a quick inspection of the ground in front of the cabin. A complex of tire tracks crisscrossed in the brownish-red sand, but there was no sign of Pearson’s flashy red motorcycle.
Dead Soul Page 27
