Dead Soul

by James D. Doss

  “I cannot see how any good would come from scratching my X on the dotted line.”

  Newman pocketed the unexecuted agreement. “This will be interpreted by my superiors as an unfriendly gesture. I don’t know how I’ll explain your lack of cooperation.”

  Moon felt the heat of righteous anger warming his face. “Explain it this way. I have me a fine lawyer down in Durango town who wears a blue pinstripe suit and a red bow tie. His given name is Walter Price, but he is more commonly known as Crocodile Wally. This man eats live baby ducks for breakfast, big-eyed puppy dogs for lunch, government lawyers for snacks—and picks his teeth with a railroad spike. Your superiors may deal with him.”

  Newman’s lips went thin, his face paled to a sickly yellowish tint. “I am pained to point this out, but in connection with your part-time job as Senator Davidson’s security consultant, you applied for and were issued an FBI security clearance which gives you access to specific categories of classified material. With such access comes certain responsibilities and liabilities. Including fines and imprisonment for unauthorized release of said classified material. I refer you to Section 1,001, Title 18 of the United States Code.”

  The Ute felt the skin on his face stiffen into a hard mask.

  The FBI agent managed to look the Indian straight in the eye. “You are hereby informed that critical information that might be used to apprehend those persons responsible for the attempted decapitation of the United States government is classified. And don’t ask me which critical information. That information is also classified, and will be continually reviewed and modified by the Security Affairs Committee in the Department of Justice.”

  Moon mouthed his words in a deceptively mild tone. “So if I say something, it might be the wrong thing. Trouble is, I don’t know what the wrong thing is.”

  “In principle, you will have access to the Bureau’s classification manual. We keep a copy at the Denver field office. But precisely what is classified is liable to change on a day-by-day basis, according to the whims of the aforesaid Review Committee. And our manual only gets updated about once a month.” Newman looked at his shoes. “Make a dumb move, and you could spend the next several years in expensive litigation. Or in the federal can.”

  “Thanks for pointing this out, Stan.”

  “Don’t mention it. And I really mean that.” Newman snapped the latch on his briefcase. “I gotta go now.” The FBI agent jerked his head, indicating that Moon should follow him to his car.

  Moon followed, wondering whether the FBI agent thought the Columbine headquarters might be wired for sound. And whether Newman might be right. He tried to shrug off this paranoiac notion, but it stuck to him like a bad smell.

  A few yards from the porch, the government cop addressed the rancher in a low monotone. “For once, Charlie, listen to what I’ve got to say. Us Bureau cops appreciate what you’ve done. The Secret Service grunts would like to pin a medal on your chest. We’re on your side.”

  “That’s nice to hear.” Moon slowed to match the shorter man’s strides. “But I think I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

  “But when somebody attempts to decapitate the United States government, and evidence points to the nephew of a powerful U.S. senator—a senator who happens to be one of the president’s closest friends and advisors—well, things tend to get more than a bit dicey.” The FBI agent stopped at the Ford Taurus, turned to look up at the tall man’s face. “Even as we speak, the president of the United States is appointing a blue-ribbon panel to oversee the decap investigation. It’ll look pretty much like the Warren Commission. Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Speaker of the House, director of the CIA, a retired Atlanta police chief, General Motors’ CEO, a famous astronaut who is now a U.S. senator—and the list of notables goes on.”

  “Sounds like a sensible thing to do.”

  Stanley Newman shook his head. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

  “Maybe you better.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk slow so you can understand. The president and his closest advisors have already reached a decision about what happened. The attempted assassination was carried out by a group of highly organized domestic or international terrorists. It was not an inside job. The senator’s nephew was not implicated in any way in the bombing of the House Chamber. There is no scandal associated with Senator Davidson’s family or household.” The FBI agent looked away from the honest man’s face. “And the president’s handpicked panel will seek out evidence to support the White House position.”

  The Ute stared at his visitor. “But the evidence—”

  Newman snapped Moon’s words off. “The conclusion will be that the bomb-making apparatus you found in the kid’s shack was planted by a person or persons unknown.”

  “Stanley, I already heard through the cop shop grapevine—Allan Pearson’s prints were all over that stuff.”

  Newman ground his teeth. “Charlie, forget what you heard. Even if that fingerprint rumor turned out to be factual, under the current rules it would constitute classified information. And on toppa that, it would be the Justice Department’s official position that the actual person or persons responsible for this terrible crime had tricked the senator’s nephew into touching those pieces of evidence.”

  “But—”

  “Dammit, there ain’t no but.” He pointed a finger at his mouth. “Charlie, read my lips. Allan Pearson did not know that he was planting the explosive battery in the senator’s electric scooter. Allan Pearson did not bomb Buford’s house or the BoxCar headquarters. Allan Pearson did not go into hiding.”

  The Ute stared at the fed. “If he didn’t go into hiding, then where is he?”

  “In these chaotic times, exactness is a hard commodity to come by.” Newman raised his hands. “There was some thought that he might have been kidnapped by the perps. But that theory was rejected. Officially Allan Pearson is out there somewhere in the Great Beyond; he dwells in that far place from which no mortal returns. And I do not mean Carter County, Montana.”

  “You really think he’s dead?”

  “It is not my job to conjecture about whether or not the nephew’s heart still beats. That issue has already been decided in the Oval Office, and in a year or so will be a central finding of the president’s handpicked blue-ribbon panel.”

  “So how’d Patch’s nephew die?”

  “Allan Pearson perished in the flames of the BoxCar headquarters.”

  The sense of unreality returned. “Will the blue-ribbon panel have any proof of that?”

  “How could they? The fire was sufficiently intense to destroy all evidence of the young man’s body.”

  “Even bone-powder?”

  “Charlie, I’m trying to help you, so don’t go and piss me off.”

  “Why wasn’t Pearson’s motorcycle found at the headquarters?”

  “Whoever is responsible for the deaths of Allan Pearson and Henry Buford either rode or hauled Pearson’s red Suzuki two-wheeler to Montrose, left it in a lot behind an establishment known as Buggy Joe’s Tavern.” He paused. “The FBI has been directed by the U.S. Attorney General to conduct its investigation on the broad assumption that organized terrorists—foreign or domestic—are behind the failed attempt to assassinate the upper echelon of the United States government.”

  “The same group I might be working with. Unless I keep my mouth shut.”

  Newman nodded at his distorted reflection on the Taurus fender. “Now you’re getting the picture.”

  The tribal investigator looked off toward the mountains. They seemed impossibly remote and serene. “So it’s a whitewash. A cover-up.”

  Newman shook his head. “Not exactly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the current administration does not want to know any truth that might turn out to be embarrassing or inconvenient. There’s lots of historical precedent. Like when Eisenhower ignored intelligence reports that the Russians held several hundred American soldiers who’d be
en captured by the Chinese during the Korean so-called police action. Or when Lyndon Johnson didn’t want to hear any evidence supporting the theory that Castro was ultimately responsible for the Kennedy assassination.” He smirked at the tall man. “And you know damn well I’m right.”

  The Ute kicked a stone across the yard.

  The FBI agent snickered. “You better watch your skinny ass, Charlie Moon.”

  Sidewinder materialized at the Ute’s side. The hound’s neck bristled; he snarled at the federal lawman.

  Newman backed off a half step, scowled at the animal. “What is it about me that this ugly dog don’t like?”

  “You want to hang around for another coupla hours, I’ll prepare you a written list.”

  “That’s real accommodating of you.”

  “Hey, we’re old buddies.”

  “Sayonara, Charlie. And whatever happens, don’t say your buddy Stanley didn’t warn you.” Newman got into the Ford, slammed the door. He started the engine, frowned, lowered the window. “Your ugly dog made me remember something I needed to ask you about. Henry Buford—he have any pets?”

  The Ute nodded. “Old bluetick hound. Henry called him Grape-Eye.”

  “Yeah, that must be the one.” The weary FBI agent rubbed his eyes. “About a hundred yards from the ruins of Buford’s log house, we found a dog’s carcass in an arroyo. It’d been hidden—covered up with stones and brush. Poor mutt’d been shot in the head.”

  “He loved that old dog.” Moon recalled the visit he had made to the ranch manager’s home. It seemed like years ago.

  Newman stared up at the tall man. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Officially, I can’t say—might turn out to be classified information.”

  “Don’t be cute. Spill it.”

  “Henry told me the senator’s nephew hated dogs—especially Grape-Eye.” The tribal investigator looked at the coffee cup in his hand. Like the embers of Henry Buford’s house, it had grown cold. “But that can’t be important, because officially Allan Pearson didn’t have anything to do with killing Henry’s dog, shooting Henry, burning down his house, firebombing the BoxCar headquarters to red-hot smithereens—or planting a bomb in the senator’s Electric GroundHog.”

  Newman grinned at this remarkable man, who actually believed the world should make sense. “Charlie, I’m beginning to think you might come out of this with your hide intact.”

  “Stanley, I intend to do just that.”

  The federal agent waved, stomped on the accelerator. His departing automobile was cloaked by a billow of yellow dust.

  Long after the drone of the small engine was lost in the distance, Charlie Moon did not move. Unaware of Sidewinder’s curious gaze, he turned the coffee cup in his hands, watched slanted rays of sunlight reflect off the ebony surface of the tepid liquid. An exceedingly thin film of oil produced a pretty rainbow sheen. He thought about Henry Buford’s dead hound, concealed under a pile of rocks and brush. It was easy enough to imagine the senator’s warped nephew shooting Henry and killing the victim’s dog. But why would he go to the trouble to hide the animal’s body? It did not make sense. He supposed that very little Allan Pearson had done in his few years would yield to rational analysis.

  Nevertheless, he pondered about the hidden dog carcass until the shadows grew long and diffuse. Finally, the Ute nodded to no one in particular.

  Maybe—in a sick, twisted kind of way—it did make sense.

  Chapter Forty

  MOON OF DEAD LEAVES FALLING

  AUTUMN ARRIVED LATE AT THE COLUMBINE, AND WOULD BE ALLOTTED the fleeting period between two crescent moons. Winter, having paused in Montana, made reservations for points farther south, where it would settle in until the return of the sharp-shinned hawk. The high country cares nothing for calendars drafted by the hand of man.

  DOLLY BUSHMAN fussed about the spacious kitchen, worrying about one thing and another. She pointed a dripping spatula at a cast-iron skillet that was filled to the brim with frying chicken. “Just look at that—the grease all runs to one side.”

  Her husband eyed the antique appliance. The monstrous thing was solid iron and seriously heavy. “I expect it’s the floor that’s tilted.”

  “Don’t go making no excuses—I want this stove leveled.”

  “I’ll get around to it tomorrow.” Or maybe the day after tomorrow. Pete approached the stove, stirred a cedar spoon in a pot of bean and bacon soup, lifted the wooden implement to his mouth. He smacked his lips. “Needs two or three dabs a salt. And just a little pinch a garlic, and then some—”

  “You get away from there—don’t be messing with my stuff.” His plump wife shot the meddling man a poisonous look.

  Pete snorted, but he dropped the spoon into the soup pot. “What’s chewin’ on your leg, old woman?”

  Dolly snatched a matched pair of hemp pot holders off a brass wall hook. “You are.” The Queen of the Kitchen elbowed the pesky man aside, bent an aching back to remove a steaming peach cobbler from the sooty oven. She thumped the sweet concoction onto the dining table. The foreman’s wife stood, staring at the pie—but not seeing it.

  Pete Bushman knew the look. If she don’t get it outta her system, she’ll start to yapping after we go to bed. And I won’t get a wink of sleep. He seated himself at the table, gave his wife a sideways look. “You might as well tell me now.”

  Dolly sat down beside her husband, kept her eye on the pie. “It’s Charlie Moon.”

  Pete waited for the rest to come out.

  She wiped her hands on an apron. “Something is wrong with that man.”

  Her husband reached for an enameled coffeepot sitting on a square of Mexican tile, poured himself half a cup.

  Dolly looked accusingly at her bushy-faced mate. “And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

  Okay, I won’t. Pete took a sip of the weak brew. Made a face. I’d rather drink warmed-over goat piss.

  “Charlie hardly ever stops by anymore. And when he does, he won’t have a thing to eat.”

  Pete raised an eyebrow. That sure didn’t sound like the boss. The big Ute generally put away enough food to keep three lumberjacks well nourished.

  “He won’t even have a cup of coffee,” she added.

  Her husband stared cross-eyed at his cup. Well, I don’t blame him, for that.

  “And he hardly ever goes into town anymore. Doesn’t answer any of his phone calls. Since those troubles over at the BoxCar, I get thirty or forty calls a day for him here. I had to unplug the phone so’s I could get some work done.”

  “Who is it wants to talk to the boss?”

  “For one, his aunt what’s-her-name—you know, that funny little lady.”

  “That crazy old Injun woman is about funny as a boil on my ass.”

  “Shut up, Pete.” Dolly was trying to remember the other names. “And Charlie’s friend Mr. Parris calls every day. And Senator Davidson. And that young woman who works for the senator—what’s her name?”

  “Miss James.” Pretty little thing. Pete leered under the brushy beard.

  “And there’s been a half dozen calls from some uppity lawyer who claims she works for the Justice Department. I told her Charlie don’t want to talk to a living soul. Not even the president of the United States of America. And that’s the truth. He just stays up there in that big house. All by himself.”

  Sounds like weak blood. Charlie probably needs a good dose of cod-liver oil. “I expect he must be feeling a little peaked.”

  “Well, of course he is,” Dolly snapped.

  Pete reached for a graham cracker.

  She slapped his hand. “Not till after supper.”

  The foreman scowled at his wife. Damn crabby old woman. “So when is supper goin’ to be ready?”

  She sniffed. “We are not talking about you stuffin’ your face—we are talking about Charlie Moon.” Dolly rapped a knuckle on the table. “I’d wager he’s lost ten, maybe fifteen pounds. And the man was skinny as a fence rail to start
with.”

  “Well, I don’t know what we can do about it.”

  “You could go up there and talk to him.”

  “What could I say?”

  Dolly shook a finger at her husband. “You better think of something.”

  “I think better on a full stomach,” Pete grumped.

  PETE BUSHMAN knocked on the heavy oak door.

  The inside of the Columbine headquarters was silent as a tomb.

  He knocked again.

  Still nothing.

  The foreman cupped a hand by his mouth and yelled. “Hey, boss—you in there?”

  The silence was thick as cheap molasses.

  Bushman tried the porcelain doorknob. It turned. He poked his bushy face inside. It was dark. “Helllooo—anybody home?”

  Moon’s deep voice rumbled across the parlor. “C’mon in, Pete. And shut the door behind you.”

  The foreman did as instructed, waited for his eyes to adjust to the inner twilight.

  “Have a seat,” the disembodied voice said.

  Pete Bushman flopped down on a carved Spanish bench. The boss was seated in a maple rocking chair, but he wasn’t rocking. “It’s a nice day outside.”

  The Ute made a grunting sound.

  The foreman leaned back, crossed his legs. “So how’re you gettin’ along?”

  There was a long, empty silence before Moon spoke. “What do you want, Pete?”

  “Well, I been feelin’ a little low lately. Thought I’d drop by and see the boss. Figured maybe he’d crack a joke or somethin’—cheer an old man up.”

  The Ute stared at a split pine log crackling in the massive fireplace. If a man watched a blaze like this for a million-million years, the flames would never be exactly the same. But then nothing was ever the same. From one second to the next, everything changed. Even the stones.

  Pete Bushman grinned. “An’ I do feel a world better. Yes sir—your company is a real tonic. We could bottle it an’ sell it for six dollars a half-pint.”

  “Speak your piece.”

  Dolly’s right. Something is wrong with him. For the first time since he’d met the amiable Ute, the Columbine foreman felt uneasy in Charlie Moon’s presence. “Well, we got us a big ranchin’ operation to look after. I thought we might talk some business.”